


The Boy With Fire in His Eyes

by DestinyWolfe



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: AOS, Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alien Planet, Aliens, Alternate Universe – Post-Canon, Angst, Captured, Dark, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt!Kirk, Hurt/Comfort, I tried okay?, Jim's traumatizing childhood, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, PTSD, Pining, Pining Kirk, Pining Spock, Post-Canon, Post-Star Trek Beyond, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder – PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Spock's traumatizing childhood, Spoilers for Stark Trek Beyond, Star Trek Beyond Spoilers, Stranded, T'hy'la, aos!spirk, both in healthy doses, dark in places, gays in space, h/c, kelvin!verse, kirk and spock are soulmates I tell you, lighter in other places, really sketchy science, space boyfriends, space travel, spirk, will update tags as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:01:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyWolfe/pseuds/DestinyWolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two boys from wildly different backgrounds, raised on entirely different planets, who grow up to be, despite their many differences, absolutely perfect for one another.</p><p>One planet, half light and half dark, playing host to a hoard of ancient and manipulative aliens determined to uncover the secrets of space exploration and faster than light travel, at any cost.</p><p>A starship and its loyal, genius crew of loose cannons who have come to think of each other as family, boldly going where no one has gone before.</p><p>This is a love story. Or, more accurately, this is the story of how James T. Kirk of Earth and S'chn T'gai Spock of Vulcan fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arc #1: Gemini: Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> (DISCLAIMER: I don't own any part of the Star Trek franchise, and these are not my characters. I'm just really into messing with and ruining their lives. So uuhhh... yeah. That's it. *awkwardly clears throat* Disclaimer over.)
> 
> This is my first real Star Trek fanfic. I started working on it waaaay back it in friggin' 2014 (a LONG ASS time ago, I know) and it's been bothering me for years that I never finished it. Stuff kept getting in the way, and then it got buried under the shit-pile that is my life, until I rediscovered it a few weeks ago in my old drafts folder. I'm giving it a brand new, shiny beginning, and taking it from there! Let's see how this goes, shall we? ;)
> 
> This story will be broken up into multiple arcs. The first one will concentrate on Kirk, Spock, and Bones' adventures on Gemini III, a tidally locked planet (meaning that it rotates just as fast as it orbits its sun, with one face always toward the sun and one facing away, causing one side to be eternally dark and one side to be eternally light) as they try to escape a colony of evil, advanced human-impersonating aliens called the 'Otherpeople' living on the planet's dark side. Fun times!
> 
> The next arc (or arcs, if I get really into it) will be centered around other situations/problems that Kirk, Spock, and the rest of the Enterprise crew encounter, depending on where the story goes from here. So anyway, I'm excited to finally be publishing my first Star Trek fanfic! And even more excited to hear what my fellow Trekkies/Spirk fans think of it. ^)^

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is captured by evil aliens. Bones grumbles about the situation. The situation goes to shit. The usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first things first! I'd just like to thank everyone reading this for giving my writing a try. Welcome to my personal corner of Spirk hell, people. Enjoy your stay! ;D

****

Arc #1: Gemini

****

Chapter One

____________________________________ 

It was bad enough that he was stranded on the dark side of a tidally locked planet. 

It was even worse that he'd been captured by evil human-impersonating aliens, but hey, that was pretty par for the course, right?

Right. Jim sighed, sitting down and leaning back until his head struck the metal-and-concrete wall of his cell. "Anyone else in here?" he called out into the semi-dark silence; although he couldn't see anything beyond the bar-less, windowless walls of his solitary room, he silently hoped, with a pang of debilitating guilt at his own selfishness, that he was not the only one who had been captured. 

At least that way he might have someone to talk to while figuring out how to get out of this latest clusterfuck. 

He waited, tilting his golden head, but there was no answer. Letting out his breath in a soul-deep sigh, he let his blue eyes slide shut, and his shoulders relax. _Think,_ he commanded himself. _There's gotta be some way out._ No windows, no doors. _How did they even get me in here?_

Outside, the dull _clump clump_ of approaching footsteps had him sitting up straight, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. His hands, bound painfully tight behind his back, clenched into bloodless, numb fists.

“Open the door,” a voice said. Jim was surprised to hear the familiar tones and inflections of English. The words were followed by the loud clacking of a key being forced into a lock.

The light that spilled like golden honey into the darkness of Jim's cell was blinding. He squinted against the glow, straining to make out his captors as one of them stepped through a previously hidden doorway, and into the confined space. “Get up,” the man—and it _was_ a man, at least in appearance—said. 

“What if I don't?” Jim replied, and holy fuck, why the hell was he making this harder than it had to be?

The man bared slightly yellowed teeth, eyes narrowing as he glared down at his prisoner. He opened his mouth, and for a moment Jim thought he was going to spit an insult—or just spit, period—but then a booted foot was raised, snapping through the air to collide with Jim's ribs. Jim collapsed forward, curling instinctively into a ball to protect himself, and let out an involuntary groan of pain. All the air left his lungs in an agonizing whoosh, leaving him breathless and gasping.

“That is what happens if you don't,” his captor said. When Jim looked up at him, the bastard was sneering.

“Get up.” The alien-in-human-form repeated. “Or do you want me to ruin your pretty face, pretty boy?”

Jim shook his head. He didn't quite trust his voice; his lungs were still painfully devoid of air.

As his captor moved forward and seized his upper arm, Jim tried to elbow him in the ribs. _Give some, get some_. Unfortunately, all this did was earn Jim a solid backhand across the face. He reeled, stars dancing before his vision as pain blossomed in his nose and behind his eyes. Blood dripped, hot and sticky, from his split bottom lip. _Aw, fuck._

“Don't try anything again, _Captain_ ,” the man holding Jim snarled, shaking him like a life-sized rag doll. “If you do, I will break something.”

Jim didn't grace the threat with a show of fear. Instead, he summoned his best fuck-you grin, and tried not to lurch or stumble as he was roughly dragged from his cell and into the hallway outside.

Beyond the prison block where he had been being kept—or stored--for the past two and half days, was an enormous blank room. The only ornament in the room was an ornate throne, set on a raised platform at the far end.

“Alikar. Norwind.” A figure, graceful and slender as a reed in the wind, rose from the throne. She was beautiful, Jim thought, if you were into tall, dark, and evil. Her hair, the color of a starless night, was cropped to her shoulders. Her skin was a deep beige, while her eyes were dark and severe. She wore a flowing gown of ebony silk, embroidered with gold and white. She greeted Jim's two captors with a slight dip of her head, and the faintest hint of a smile. “ _Elikithrian amaleen a'aka._ ” Whatever language that was, it wasn't one that Jim recognized.

“I'm Captain James T. Kirk,” Jim said, not waiting for her to acknowledge him before speaking. He stood up as straight as he could, given the weight of the hand on his shoulder, and offered her his most charming smile. “My ship, the _USS Enterprise_ , flagship and pride of Starfleet, is currently in orbit around this planet.” He paused, gauging her reaction. “I wouldn't piss me off, if I were you.”

The woman regarded him coldly for a long, tense minute. Somehow, Jim had the distinct feeling that she was looking _through_ him, rather than _at_ him. 

It was, to put it lightly, unnerving. 

When she spoke again, it was in flawless English. “James T. Kirk,” she said, “your ship is not in orbit around this planet. A large asteroid shower has rendered it impractical—and dangerous--to remain in orbit around Gemini III for the next five days.” Her lips, painted the color of raspberries, turned up at the corners. “You are stranded, Captain. There is no help for you now.” She looked up, and made eye contact with the man standing behind Jim. She jerked her head once: up and down.

This must have been a cue, because as soon as she did, the guard holding Jim tightened his grip on Jim's shoulder, and began to steer him away from the throne. 

“Get off,” Jim complained, rolling his shoulder and doing his best to duck away from the painfully tight grip. His attempts to gain even this small degree of freedom were met with two quick, sharp blows to the side and stomach. Gasping, he doubled over, blinking as pain blossomed in his abdomen. 

“Next time,” the alien-in-human-form hissed, “I'll break your legs.”

After that, Jim figured it was better to go along with it and wait for the opportune moment. He really didn't want to have to factor in broken legs to his already iffy escape equation.

Past the throne room was another, smaller room. This one, unlike the Queen's Hall (as Jim marked it on his mental map), was well-adorned with furniture of various sizes and shapes, and filled almost to overflow with people: people, and aliens, all of them shrinking back from the guards with fear obvious in their wide eyes.

Jim was thrown none too gently into the midst of this frightened hoard. With his hands still tightly bound, he had no way to stop his fall; he collided painfully with the stone-tiled floor face-first. A sharp shockwave of pain shot through his skull; he closed his eyes as red spread across his vision.

The guards left the room, slamming and locking the door behind them. The crowd was so still that Jim could make out the fading _clunk clunk_ of his captors' heavy, booted feet as they walked away, leaving behind them an atmosphere of tension and terror.

As soon as the footsteps faded completely, the collective room let out a long, relieved breath. “I thought they would take more of us,” a female voice said, her tone wavering tearfully. “I thought they would take me!”

“Hush,” another woman said. “We don't even know what they've done with the others. Maybe they're releasing the ones they take.”

“No way!” the first woman said, hysterical. “That's such bullshit, and you know it!”

Slowly, with the room still spinning sickeningly around him, Jim managed to roll onto his back. He blinked as the world came back into focus. He found himself looking up into ten pairs of curious, wide, colorless eyes.

“Are hurt?” one of the humanoids in the group asked Jim in broken English. The alien male was tall and slender, with slit pupils and no nose. His skin was dark gray, and his ears slanted back and down into long, slim points. All around him were others of his kind, their dull white eyes watching Jim with a kind of detached wariness. Whatever they were, Jim hadn't encountered their species before.

Jim shook his head, and immediately felt nauseous from the movement. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a second to regain his composure before speaking. “Fine,” he replied, once his ears had stopped ringing and his stomach had settled. He offered the watchful, strange, gray-skinned aliens a slightly pained smile. “Someone want to help me up?”

The alien male who had first spoken glanced at the female beside him. Jim immediately recognized the uncomfortable confusion in his gaze.

“I mean,” Jim amended, speaking slowly and clearly this time, “will one of _you_ \--” he nodded at the group, “--help _me_ stand _back up?”_

“Ah!” the alien mimicked Jim's nod, mouth twisting into an approximation of a human smile. He reached down at once, grabbing the starship captain by the front of his uniform and hoisting him bodily to his feet. “Now fine?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Jim agreed. “I'm fine.” He shrugged his shoulders, trying in vain to regain some feeling to his still-bound hands. “Anyone have a really sharp knife or something?”

The gray humanoids exchanged another round of confused glances, murmuring something in a soft, flowing foreign tongue. Jim let out his breath, fighting back annoyance. After all, it wasn't _their_ fault that _he_ didn't even understand the few words in their language that they did in his.

Turning around, Jim held out his bound hands for the aliens to see. “I can't get them off,” he explained, wiggling his bloodless fingers for emphasis, “and my hands are gonna fall off if I don't get them off soon.”

The alien male, who seemed to be the leader of the group, looked shocked. He said something very fast to the female beside him, who put one hand over her mouth.

Jim sighed, and warred for a moment with the urge to roll his eyes. _They wouldn't get the gesture, anyway,_ he thought, but restrained himself nonetheless. “Not literally 'fall off',” he said, “well, not for a long time. I just meant that…” Okay, how the hell was he supposed to explain _exaggeration_ to this lot? They didn't even understand the majority of what he was saying, if their expressions were anything to go by. 

This was already turning into an awkward culture-clash mess, and he'd only been in the room for three minutes. 

“Never mind,” he finished lamely, giving up completely. “Just get me out of these?”

“Yes,” the gray alien agreed, and nodded again. Reaching forward, he began to untie the knots binding Jim's wrists with sure, agile fingers. He struggled for a long moment, before retracting his fingers with a shake of his head. “No,” he corrected himself, looking sad.

“Well, fuck me,” Jim swore, then quickly amended, “not literally!” when the aliens looked at one another with blatant shock. It seemed that maybe they did understand much of what he was saying after all; perhaps it was simply difficult for their oddly shaped mouths and tongues to form English sounds. _Good times,_ Jim thought. _This should be really simple. Bet I'll get out of this one with no trouble at all._

Okay seriously, that snide, sarcastic voice in his head needed to go.

“Ah!” the head of the gray alien family exclaimed suddenly. “Doctor help, maybe?”

 _There's a doctor here?_ Jim looked up at the tall, solemn, gray-skinned group surrounding him, and cocked one eyebrow. “What doctor?” he asked, and then realization dawned on him, wrapping tendrils of tentative hope around his pounding heart: _Oh god, please let it be Bones…_

It was. 

Which turned out to be both a blessing and a serious pain in Jim's already bruised and beaten ass.

“Jim?” Bones said. The surgeon's voice was rough with barely veiled tension as he pushed his way through the crowd, elbowing aliens and humans alike out of his way with vicious intent. “Where is that stupid kid; I'm gonna hypo him into next century if he's got even a _scratch_...”

Jim never got to find out how that threat ended, because at that moment, the _Enterprise's_ CMO burst through the watchful crowd and came to a dead halt directly in front of Jim. Bones stared at Jim in a moment of abject silence. “ _Jim_ ,” the doctor said, somehow sounding relieved and furious all in one breath. “I thought you were _dead!”_

Jim shrugged one shoulder—the one that didn't feel like it may or may not be partially dislocated from being manhandled by aliens—and offered up his most charming smile. “Sorry to disappoint, but I think I might be allergic to death. Hey, you mind getting these cuffs off?”

Bones made a sound of disdain, but beneath his friend's disgruntled expression, Jim caught the faintest trace of amusement. The doctor moved around behind Jim, and set to work undoing the knots, tossing aside the blood-encrusted ropes with a grimace. “Damn, kid,” Bones said, and put a hand on Jim's shoulder once he'd finished. Jim winced, and Bones frowned, shaking his head. “Wish I had my tricorder and med kit. I'll need to get a good look at you anyway, though. Supplies or not.”

Jim shrugged the doctor off. He rubbed his wrists, coaxing circulation back into the bruised and oxygen-deprived flesh. “I'm fine,” he complained. “Mom.”

Bones opened his mouth, eyebrows contracting dangerously and hand raised threateningly to point at Jim's chest, but he was cut off before he could reply by the door at the far end of the room grinding open on rusted hinges.

“Ah, shit,” Jim swore, turning to see that their strangely stone-faced captors had returned. “Save me,” he whispered to Bones. 

Jim's CMO rolled his eyes. “What did you do to piss of the native fauna this time?” Bones said in an undertone as the human-looking aliens scanned the crowd with narrowed, cold eyes.

Jim cocked an eyebrow. “You have to ask?”

“Fuck me,” Bones growled. “You better have one hell of a plan to get us outta here, Jim, or I'll kick your ass myself.”

“Are you implying that you would hurt your own captain, Bones? Because I'm pretty sure that Starfleet regulations explicitly state...” Jim began, grinning widely. 

Bones cut him off with a snarl. “I'm not implying shit, Jim. Now shut up and look scared before you get both of us murdered.”

Jim turned his attention back to their captors, who had begun walking through the crowd, heads swiveling and cold eyes sweeping over the down-turned faces. Aliens and humans alike shrank back as the silent, prowling Impersonators (as Jim begun to mentally refer to them) approached, leaving wide isles of empty space through the over-packed room.

When the guards reached him, Jim didn't move. The first of the guards—the tallest and most stern-looking—came to a stop right in front of him, glaring down his nose at the captain with open hostility. “Move,” the guard snarled, baring worn and yellowed teeth. 

Jim was vaguely aware of Bones pulling on his sleeve, and growling something in his ear, but the vast majority of his attention was focused on the alien-man standing before him. “No,” Jim said, and crossed his arms over his chest like a petulant child. “Unless you want to make me?” He cocked one eyebrow and smirked: a blatant challenge.

“ _Jim!_ ” hissed Bones. “What the _devil_ do you think you're doing?”

“I dunno,” Jim replied, holding the intense eye contact with his captor unblinkingly. His smirk widened as the guard drew himself up to his full height, snarling like a wild beast. “Just getting you into trouble, Bones. Like always.”

The alien threw a punch, and Jim faked a block, feinting to the side at the last moment. Jim felt knuckles graze his cheek, but he came away unscathed, blood burning with the thrill of adrenaline.

Jim grinned, playing at cocky and unruffled. “That the best you can do?”

The next blow caught him squarely in the chest. He felt the air rush out, and choked on nothing, crumpling like a deflated balloon as he sank to the tiled floor. He swayed, blinking up at the guard, who was now sneering down at him triumphantly. 

“Is that the best _you_ can do?” the alien-in-human-form said. He spit on the floor beside Jim, before moving past the sprawled prisoner toward the door at the other end of the room.

But Jim wasn't done yet.

Lifting his head, he reached up, hands clutching at his chest, gasping in increasingly shortened breaths and clawing at his throat with his fingers. “Fuck,” he choked out, head falling back against the floor with a dull _thud._ He coughed, biting his tongue hard as he did. Flecks of bright red spattered his lips: _perfect._

Bones was on him in an instant. “Jim,” the doctor said, urgency lacing the name like poison. “Jim, what the hell…?!”

Jim looked up at his friend, panic in his expression that didn't reach his eyes. As the alien guards turned toward them again, cold gazes sweeping the scene, Jim offered Bones the faintest, most subtle hint of a smirk: _It's just an act, man. Chill out._

Jim saw realization rush into the ship's surgeon expression like sunlight piercing dark waters. Bones' eyes narrowed as if in concentration and concern, but Jim could see the exasperation and silent, unspoken “you-had-better-fucking-know-what-you're-doing-kid” hidden beneath his worried facade.

The guard who had punched Jim was at Bones' side in two quick strides. “What's wrong?” he sneered. “Did I hit the little girl too hard?”

So these fuckers knew how to employ stupid macho insults, Jim noted. _Fascinating,_ as his First Officer might say.

As Bones pretended to fuss and argue with the guards as he “stabilized” Jim, Jim himself was hit by a painful wave of homesickness: he missed Spock, he realized, and the rest of the bridge crew. A week in various crates, boxes, and lightless rooms had not done his sanity any favors, it seemed.

As he closed his eyes and pretended to slip into unconsciousness, Jim hoped desperately that Spock had managed to get off-planet along with Scotty and Uhura. Given the crew's streak of absurd bad luck during the second half of their five year mission, however, even that small favor seemed too much to ask of the universe.

After a few minutes more of muttering and poking, Bones finally gave up his efforts to 'resuscitate' Jim. “He's dead,” the doctor declared. Jim felt the vibrations of his CMO's footsteps as Bones rose to his feet and spun to face their alien captors. “Damn it, man, you _killed_ him!”

“How?” the alien replied, and beneath his cold, calm tone, Jim heard the first hint of discomfort. “I only hit him once!”

“Yeah, but he's _human_ ,” Bones said, like this explained everything. “You hit him right in the goddamn _heart_. You stopped his heart, you dumb sack of pig shit!”

Jim heard the aliens snarl furiously in response to the insult. “Keep your mouth shut, scum,” one creature growled, “or I'll put you down the same way I did him.”

Jim felt rather than saw the man beside him tense with aggression, and imagined Bones physically restraining himself from hurling another mouthful of biting Southern scorn at their captors. Or throwing a punch. Possibly both. “Fine,” Bones said after a long, tense moment. “My medical kit was confiscated with our weapons. Bring it to me; I might be able to revive him. Assuming your mistress in that damned throne room out there will kill you if her most valuable prisoner fuckin' _dies_?”

Jim didn't move. He didn't even crack his eyes open. If the guards realized he was faking, it was all over. For both of them. So, as curious as he was to see the situation unfold, he forced himself to remain still and silent as the grave.

A fitting turn of phrase, as it were.

“Get him the kit,” the guard snapped at one of the other aliens. “Now!” There was a muttered reply in some language that wasn't English, and then the sound of retreating footsteps.

A moment later, the door on the other end of the room creaked open, then slammed shut.

Jim heard Bones let out a long, gusty sigh. A moment later, the doctor knelt beside him, fingers pressing hard against the pulse point in Jim's wrist. “Still nothing,” Bones reported to the aliens. “Your man had better hurry up.”

The guard who had been sent off in search of Bones' med kit returned in a startlingly short amount of time. The creature shoved its way through the crowd—Jim could hear the soft whimpers of many of the room's occupants as the alien-in-human-skin passed—until it was standing beside its companion once more. “Here it is,” the alien said, sounding very slightly breathless. “The kit the human doctor requested.”

“About damn time,” Bones growled, as if the thirty seconds that had passed had been thirty minutes. 

Jim couldn't help it: he tensed ever so slightly as he felt the hypospray against his neck, flinching as Bones injected some unknown liquid into his body. Immediately, he felt a cold, creeping sensation crawl through his flesh, spreading like poison through his veins.

For all he knew, it _was_ poison. He really wouldn't put it past Bones.

“Hold on, Jim,” Bones muttered as Jim's entire body began to go numb. Jim felt the surgeon's hand close momentarily around his wrist. Bones leaned down, seemingly pretending to listen for Jim's breath, and hissed in Jim's ear: “Whatever happens, let me handle this. Got it?”

Jim didn't dare respond verbally, or even with the slightest nod of his head; instead, he flexed the muscles in his wrist once to show that he'd heard.

Bones stood up, letting go of Jim's wrist. “He's gone,” he told their captors, injecting a healthy dose of weariness and resignation into his tone. “Nothing else I can do.”

Jim expected to slip into unconsciousness in the next few minutes, but instead, he stayed fully aware even as the numbing agent spread through his body, freezing his muscles and bringing his heart-rate down to a painfully slow five beats per minute. The substance Bones had forced into his system was immobilizing him without disabling his senses, Jim realized, and felt a sudden rush of respect for his CMO's quick thinking. If something went wrong with this plan—and _c'mon, let's face it, there were_ so many _ways that this could go sideways_ —at least Jim might have the chance to opt out of it before it was too late.

“Get a bag,” the taller guard snapped at his companion. “We can't let the body decompose here. It could cause disease among the other prisoners.”

_Thank god,_ Jim thought. _I was half expecting to be thrown in an incinerator._

He wondered if Bones had considered that possibility. Probably, he answered himself, and felt a flash of resentment toward his CMO.

By the time the alien guard returned with the body bag, Jim's eyes had fallen half-open as the numbing agent worked. He'd forgotten, in his act, that dead people usually did have their eyes open. But without the option to blink, Jim soon found that being realistic was incredibly, dishearteningly uncomfortable.

“You're putting him in _that_ thing?” Bones asked, and although Jim couldn't look directly at the doctor, he saw a darker-than-usual-shadow pass over his friend's face. 

“Yes,” replied the taller of the two aliens. Jim saw a taut smile cross their captor's stony face. “We will seal the body inside to prevent any cross-contamination with other prisoners. And to preserve it, so that we may study it later on.”

Jim stared straight up at the ceiling as the shorter of the two guards knelt down and hoisted him up, sliding his limp body inside the black plastic slip. As he watched the zipper on the front of the bag glide up, sealing him in a shell of pitch blackness, he heard Bones' protests, and the taller alien's snarled threats of violence if the doctor did not stand down.

“No!” Bones was yelling. “Hold on just a second, you…!”

Jim felt himself begin to move away through the room, still held in the arms of his captor, Bones' cussing ringing in his ears.

“Take him to the morgue,” an unfamiliar, reedy voice said as the door slammed shut behind them. 

“ _Aki'i namha ilithia,”_ the guard carrying Jim replied. 

Jim felt the body he was pressed against jolt once, and then his captor was in motion again, striding down the hallway beyond the overcrowded room. They were headed in the direct opposite direction from the Queen's Hall, Jim assessed. He made a mental note on the map of this place he was slowly building in his mind's eye.

After a few minutes, the air around his face began to grow hot. And then stuffy. And then it was as if there wasn't any air in the bag at all _._

And that's when Jim realized: the damn thing was _airtight._

No wonder Bones had been putting up such a fight. It hadn't been because they were going to study Jim, or because they were hauling him away. Bones must have been expecting that.

No, Bones had been flipping his shit because _Jim was going to suffocate._

And here Jim was thinking their situation couldn't get any shittier. 

He really fucking hated being wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you go! The first chapter of Arc #1. 
> 
> If you liked this (or didn't like it, even!) I'd absolutely love to hear from you. My favorite thing about publishing my fanfiction here on the AO3 is hearing what other fans think of it, so please, please, please drop me a comment and tell me what you think! 
> 
> (*yells at my readers from across the grocery store* I'm always a slut for feedback!)


	2. Arc #1: Gemini: Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's planning-ahead skills suck ass. 'Nuff said.

Arc #1: Gemini

Chapter Two

____________________________________ 

Inside the morgue, everything was absolutely silent. The darkness surrounding Jim grew as the guard flicked off the lights and closed the door, leaving Jim alone in the suffocating, choking void. The silence was so loud and complete in the bag that it hurt Jim's ears. Without even his own heartbeat for reference, Jim had no idea how many seconds had passed since his last real breath. His chest ached. His mouth was bone-dry. He was beginning to see stars.

He didn't know how long he waited—it could only have been a minute or less, but it felt like an eon—before the sound of approaching footsteps broke the deathly cloak of stillness that had fallen over him.

“Open this bag,” a voice ordered, so close that, had he not been completely immobile, Jim would have startled. Jim didn't recognize the speaker; it must be a new guard, or a mortician. 

Did aliens even _have_ morticians?

Jim didn't recognize the first voice, but the voice that answered it was deeply familiar. “What does it contain?”

_Spock!_ Jim would have known that veiled disdain anywhere. Especially since it was usually aimed at him. _Spock!_ Jim called out again in his mind. He was beginning to get desperate. Red lights flashed through the black obscuring his vision: blood spots on ebony silk. If he didn't get fresh air soon—as in _the next couple seconds,_ soon—he was going to pass out.

He wasn't exactly sure what would happen if he did. Bones hadn't exactly had the chance to tell him what drug had been in that damned hypo.

The Impersonator scoffed. “Why don't you find out?”

The relief that Jim felt when he heard the sound of a zipper sliding down was overwhelming. And when Spock's face came into his blurry line of sight, the young captain felt a burst of giddy elation as bright and warm as the light of a supernova bursting across a cloudless night sky.

Until Spock froze, zipper pinched between thumb and forefinger, and stared down in what could only be described as abject horror at the man beneath him. “Captain,” the half-Vulcan breathed. As air rushed into the bag and Jim's vision began to return, he saw, painfully clear, the raw grief shining in his First Officer's dark eyes.

_I'm fine!_ Jim wanted to tell him. _I'm drugged, not dead._ _Don't get all Vulcan-emotional on me here!_

But it was no use. Spock couldn't hear him. All the mental shouting in the world wouldn't do jack shit to change the fact that Spock thought his captain was dead. 

Again.

Jim groaned inwardly as a second face came into view. The alien—one of the Impersonators, definitely, but not one Jim had seen before—pushed past Spock, who stood aside with an expression of cold detachment on his face. The alien male leaned over Jim, frowning. 

“Looks like blunt trauma,” the Impersonator said. He—or was it an it? either way—finished unzipping the bag, and peered down at Jim with steely gray eyes. “There's no blood anywhere but on his lips,” the alien said. It stepped back, jerking its head at Spock and gesturing to Jim. “You're a scientist, aren't you? That's why you were sent here rather than to the holding room?”

Spock gave the slightest, most imperceptible nod. 

“Good,” the alien replied. “I want you to take apart this body. Carefully. Put the most important pieces in cold storage right away. Put the rest in preservation jars, and leave them where I can find them. If you do not comply, another member of your crew dies. Do you understand?”

Spock didn't grace the command with a reply; instead, he only gave another, miniscule dip of his head. 

The alien turned on its heel, and marched to the door. Jim, still frozen on the metal table, heard the door creak shut behind it. A solid _CLUNK-click_ alerted him to the fact that they were now locked in.

It took Spock a good solid minute of silent, motionless staring before he approached Jim again. And even then he refused to touch his captain, hands clenched into fists at his sides. It was the only indicator of emotion that Jim could find in his First Officer's otherwise rigid, unreadable demeanor. 

_C'mon, Spock!_ Jim fought desperately to do something, _anything_ , to get Spock's attention. If he could just move one finger, or blink… it should be so damn easy, but fuck it all, right now he'd have a better chance of getting a date with the Klingon Chancellor than voluntarily moving any part of his body.

“Captain?” Spock said again, this time turning the word into a question. “Jim?”

_Fuck! Fuck me, fuck this fucking bullshit!_ Jim sent up a flurry of curses inside his head. _Spock, c'mon, I'm fine; this is fucking crazy, c'mon…!_

Of course, _this_ was the moment that Spock chose to reach out and touch him. The half-Vulcan recoiled at the veritable torrent of chaotic thought and feeling racing through Jim's body, shock widening his eyes and tensing his muscles. “Captain…?” Spock began, tentatively, but with an undercurrent of hope seeping through his tone. His hands came up, hovering hesitantly over Jim's body like birds circling a murky pond.

Jim wanted to laugh with relief. He also wanted to scream, and cuss, and maybe even hit something, but hey, what else was new? But, although he could feel his heartbeat beginning to return to normal, and breathing was fast becoming easier, he still couldn't move a goddamn muscle on his own.

Until suddenly, he could.

His whole body jerked awkwardly as he tried (for what felt like the ten thousandth time in a minute) to sit up, and finally succeeded. Kind of. Instead of obeying his brain's command, his muscles spasmed once, then went limp once more. His head fell back against the metal table with a loud _thunk._

“Captain!” Spock exclaimed, and yeah, that was _definitely_ relief. No way Spock could take it back now, Jim thought, elated. He was never going to let him live it down. _Emotionless, my ass._

Jim tried to reply, but his mouth still wouldn't work. His lips parted, but his tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth, and words wouldn't come. Although he could move again, little things like clenching his hands and taking deep breaths, he still wasn't mobile enough to form intelligible sounds.

Spock's hands were on Jim's body now, fingers pressing down hard against the captain's chest. “Captain,” Spock said, the barest hint of shock in his otherwise steady voice, “you seem to be experiencing severe heart palpitations. Your pulse does not currently fall within the acceptable range for a human male of your age and build.”

Jim managed a slight nod. “Bones,” he slurred out. His lips were still numb, his tongue refusing to respond. “Drugged me.”

Spock lifted one eyebrow. “I fail to see why Doctor McCoy would do such a thing,” he said. “Especially given the damage you have sustained to your chest and abdomen.”

“Scrapes and bruises,” Jim said, and thank god, he was getting his voice back now. “Nothing bad.”

“I was under the impression that all injuries were undesireable, regardless of their severity.”

Jim sat up, and immediately collapsed. He huffed out a breath of annoyance. “Bones drugged me,” he explained, “because I was supposed to play dead and get away. Cause a diversion; buy him time to get the rest of the prisoners out. Something like that. I dunno, we had to wing it.”

Spock's eyebrow was almost to his hairline. “I see.”

“Ah, c'mon, Spock, don't give me that look,” Jim complained. “How was I supposed to know they'd want to study me?”

“You _are_ a fascinating specimen, Captain,” Spock said, and seriously, did those words really just come out of his First Officer's mouth?

Jim opened his mouth to reply, mulling over just how the hell he was supposed to respond to such a statement, when the lock on the door fell away with a dull clanging of metal on metal. Slowly, the door began to slide open. Jim went limp on the table, looking up at Spock with wide blue eyes, and hissed, “Quick, study me!”

Spock nodded very slightly, and reached for the nearest tray of medical implements. 

The door opened with a loud, long groan. An Impersonator—a new one, maybe another guard, judging by the uniform he wore—entered, steely eyes immediately sweeping the scene. “The body,” he said, jerking his head at Jim. “Is that the captain of your ship?”

Spock inclined his head: agreement.

“Come with me,” the guard said shortly. “You admitted to being second in command earlier, which means you're captain now. The Empress wished to meet with your captain, but as he is dead, you will take his place.”

_Shit,_ thought Jim, and couldn't help but tense on the table. If Spock left, then Jim was stuck here in the morgue, half-drugged and unable to defend himself. _This has got to be up there in the top-ten-worst-thought-out plans of all time,_ he thought. _And that's saying a lot._

Spock nodded again. Jim barely caught the sideways glance that his First Officer gave him as the guard reopened the door, and led the way out into the hall. Jim felt a surge of longing to follow, but was entirely sure that his legs wouldn't hold him for more than a second if he tried.

As it turned out, he didn't need to. Within seconds of leaving the morgue, Spock returned, hands clasped behind his back and an expression of serenity on his face. “The guard has been dealt with, Captain,” he informed Jim. “The indigenous species of this planet seem to have a pressure point at the base of their neck similar to the one found in humans.”

Jim cocked an eyebrow. “That's because they're in human form,” he said, but couldn't help the grin forming on his lips. Leave it to Spock to effortless, cleanly take out their captors while Jim lay incapacitated by his own ill-conceived plan. Fucking typical.

Spock gave Jim a look that definitely was _not_ disdainful. “I am aware,” he said calmly. “However, I was uncertain if their human appearances meant that they are susceptible to the same methods of immobilization usually effective on humans.”

“Right,” Jim said. He thought for a long moment. “You think kicking them between the legs would work?”

“You are most welcome to try that method, Captain,” Spock said. “Perhaps if we encounter another guard, and assuming that you have recovered enough strength to stand. ”

_Rude,_ thought Jim, and swung his legs over the edge of the metal table. “I can stand,” he challenged. “Watch. I'll stand up right now.”

The actual act of 'standing up' lasted about two seconds, but hey, in his defense, the floor was slippery and the room was spinning like a motherfucker. (Okay, so maybe that last one didn't count as an opposing exterior force. But still. It was a lot harder than it looked.)

Spock caught him as he fell; Jim reached up and seized two fists-fulls of science blues. He clung to his First Officer, swaying, spots of black and red splashing across his vision like raindrops on glass as he blinked dazedly. “Sorry,” Jim mumbled against Spock's shirt. He stumbled backward, reaching out to brace himself on the medical table as his legs wobbled and threatened to give out again. He frowned, shaking his head to clear the relentless buzzing in his ears. 

“It seems,” began Spock, smoothing the wrinkles from the front of his shirt, “that you are incapable of leaving this room without aid.”

“I could roll this damn table all the way to the throne room,” Jim shot back, slightly ruffled by the unintentional insult. (Or _was_ it unintentional? He could never tell with Spock.) Sighing, he sagged against the table in question, breathing far too heavily as his body struggled to return to its normal level of function. “Look out, fuckers,” he said, with a healthy dose of false-bravado. “Here comes the great James T. Kirk: professional ass-kicker, and table-surfer extraordinaire.”

Spock had the good grace to ignore him. “I am of the opinion that we should leave this room without delay,” the half-Vulcan said. “The Empress of this race has summoned me, and will grow suspicious if I do not arrive in her presence soon. As for you, Captain, perhaps I should carry you to a safer location.”

“Carry…? Wait, hold on,” Jim said, throwing up his hands. He stumbled and almost fell again without the table to support him. “Spock. That's crazy!”

Spock raised an eyebrow, and lifted his chin ever so slightly. “Captain, I assure you that my mental state is quite sound. And my solution to our current predicament is logical: Vulcans are three times stronger than humans, and it would not be difficult for me...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Jim cut him off. “But aren't Vulcans sensitive about personal space?”

Spock dipped his head slightly in agreement. “Yes. Given the situation, however, I find that any discomfort I may feel at being in such close proximity to you for an extended period of time is offset by the benefits of removing you from the path of potential harm.”

Jim tried very hard not to be offended by the first half of that sentence, and even harder not to give away how touched he was by the second half. “Well, if it's the most logical solution.” He grinned devilishly at Spock. “Pick me up, Mr. Spock.”

* * * * * * *

Jim found that being carried by a Vulcan was oddly comfortable. With one of Spock's arms under his legs and the other against his back, he lay with his side pressed flush against his First Officer's chest, one arm draped haphazardly over Spock's shoulder. Spock was warm, he realized—he knew objectively that Vulcan body temperatures were generally higher than humans', but there was something satisfying about experiencing the proof of that fact firsthand. Especially since it was really, really, incredibly, _obscenely_ cozy. Not that Jim would ever admit that out loud (if only because Spock would probably set him down if he did.)

“Captain,” Spock said, as they were approaching the throne room. So far they had been lucky and not encountered any guards, but as their path took them ever closer to the center of the alien complex, their close calls grew more numerous by the minute. “I believe it would be safer, and far more practical, for me to leave you somewhere out of sight until I have finished my meeting with the Empress.”

“You want to dump me in a closet and go meet the queen?” Jim said, trying and failing to sound like he wasn't whining. 

“I did not specify the type of room I wished to utilize,” Spock corrected him. “And I am to meet with an empress, not a queen.”

Jim had the sneaking suspicion that Spock was just avoiding the question, and was only nitpicking to distract him. “Yeah, okay, it does make more sense to split up,” he agreed. “Can't have a dead guy walking into the throne room, after all.” He paused, shifting around so that he could get a better grip on the back of Spock's shirt. For a second, his bare wrist brushed against the back of Spock's neck; he felt the half-Vulcan tense and stiffen beside him. “Sorry,” he said, quickly breaking the contact. “Touch-telepathy. Almost forgot.”

“If we do 'split up', as you suggest,” Spock said, and there was the faintest strain in his voice now, “what do you intend to do while I am meeting with the Empress?”

Jim shrugged. “Find the phasers,” he said, “and the tricorders. Once we get out of this complex, I have the feeling we're gonna want to be able to check for life signatures.”

Spock's mouth turned downward almost imperceptibly. “Do you expect to encounter hostile lifeforms on the planet's surface apart from Morrowi, Captain?”

“The Morrowi?”

“The species that captured us,” Spock explained. “'Morrowi' is the closest English approximation to the term that, in their native language, they would use to refer to their own kind.”

“Right,” Jim said. “Yeah, I expect to run into all kinds of nasty shit up there. I mean, why would a whole species chose to live underground if it's safe on the surface? Easy: they wouldn't.”

“A commendable observation,” Spock said. “If you believe that you are truly capable of moving independently, then I must agree that your plan to recover our weapons is most logical.”

Jim snorted. “Set me down and I'll show you independence,” he said, grinning.

The grin turned to a grimace as Spock set him, none to gently, against the wall of the corridor leading to the Queen's Hall. His legs shook under him, but he managed to stay upright.

“Okay, here's the plan,” Jim said, gritting his teeth as he pushed off the wall and stood on his own. His head was still spinning, and the churning nausea had returned full-force, but at least his balance was working again. “I'll come find you as soon as I have the weapons. We'll take down as many as we can, give Bones the distraction he needs to get the others out. Were any other members of the crew…?”

“Dead,” Spock replied. He folded his hands behind his back, standing with perfectly upright posture. “The aliens do not yet know that I am aware of this fact, but I saw their bodies leave the morgue directly prior to yours being brought in. They wished to keep the information from me in order to use threats to my crewmates' well-being against me.”

“Sick bastards,” Jim said. “So it's just us and Bones, then.” He sighed, suddenly exhausted. The sharp sting of grief at hearing that this mission had cost three of his crewmates their lives was only infinitesimally lightened by the realization that he now only needed to factor in two people to his escape plans, rather than five.

Spock dipped his head slightly. “Yes. Unless I was unaware of the addition of an eight member of the landing party, Doctor McCoy is the only surviving member of the _Enterprise_ crew on this planet apart from you and I. Assuming that Lieutenant Uhura and Mr. Scott managed to beam back aboard the ship before the asteroid shower began.”

Jim reached up and rubbed one hand across his face. “Let's damn well hope that's the case,” he said. “Alright, then. Have a good meeting, Commander. Break a leg. I'll come find you whenever I can.”

Spock's eyebrows contracted slightly at the strange idiom, but he did not comment on it. “Very well, Captain,” he said. 

The Vulcan turned and continued down the hall toward the throne room. Jim watched his First Officer's retreating form for a long moment, a slight frown on his face. _Oh yeah. And one other thing, Spock: don't you dare die,_ he thought, suddenly overcome by a moment of fear that was not entirely unselfish. The unspoken words hung over him, sharp and precarious as a sword hung by a single thread.

As he made his way down the hall in the direction that some of the more heavily armed guards had come from, Jim switched his brainpower over to intense contemplation of the problem at hand: getting back to the planet's surface. Preferably without anyone dying. _It's pretty straightforward, right?_ he thought, and even in his own head the words were tackily optimistic. _Just grab our phasers and kick ass. Simple. No problem. We've faced way worse odds and come out on top. This'll be a piece of cake. Right?_

No, not right. 

As it always did, fate had other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was way too much fun to write. I love these obliviously-in-love boys so much it's getting out of hand. *jumps into the eternal swirling void of K/S fandom* GERONIMO! (Oops, wrong alien-infested space fandom; my bad... 0_0)
> 
> *Ahem* Anyway, if you want to feed the dark, slimy, slightly evil creature lurking in my subconscious that is responsible for my writing (and for my ridiculous need for constant validation too, but shhh, we don't talk about that), leave me a comment telling me what you thought! I'll love you forever. <3


	3. Arc #1: Gemini: Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim fights aliens. Spock negotiates with aliens. Bones wishes he was literally anywhere else in the universe.

Arc #1: Gemini

Chapter Three

____________________________________

The guards came out of nowhere.

“ _Aki'ith! Shini, ilikina a'amith!_ ” The strange, foreign tones of the Morrowi language caught Jim's attention moments before he saw the creatures themselves. “Prisoner! Stop right there!”

Cussing, Jim whirled around, his newly acquired phaser—taken right from under the noses of the armory guards—raised and set to stun. But before he could blast either of the two Morrowi into next millennium, they were on him, snarling and tensed for battle.

One threw a solid punch at his chest, distracting him while the second seized his wrist and wrested the phaser from his grip. “Shit!” Jim dodged the first blow, ducking under his own arm and spinning away. 

The creature on his right snarled. It had taken on the form of a large, heavy-set man with graying black hair and piercing gray eyes to match. “Hold still,” the alien man snarled, “and this will be much easier for everyone.”

Jim jumped back out of their reach, bracing himself with one hand against the side of the corridor, and the other raised defensively before his face. “Hey, what can I say?” he said, grinning wildly. The familiar, giddy thrill of a fight washed through him, sweeping aside fear and reason. “I never liked the easy way.”

The second creature—the one on his left, who had taken on the appearance of a tall and heavily made-up middle-aged woman—came at him with a scream that was _almost_ intimidating. But, having faced much worse things in his life than angry alien soccer moms, Jim found that her war cry was, at best, lacking.

He told her so.

She was less than impressed. Her eyes narrowed, and her pristine white teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. She launched herself off one wall, pushing away with the ease of a house cat jumping from one couch to another. She threw herself at her opponent with a commendable measure of zeal. Her body slammed into Jim's with a dull _thud_ of flesh and fabric; they fell together against the wall, sliding down to wrestle fiercely on the tiled floor.

“Stop!” commanded the gray haired alien man as his female companion immediately lost the upper hand. 

Jim flipped his opponent over, kneeling with one leg on either side of her ribs and his hands clasped tight around her throat. “Spock said,” he began, speaking through gritted teeth, “that you assholes have human weaknesses. Let's find out if he was right.”

He barely had time to spin around as he heard the familiar whining buzz of a phaser preparing to fire. 

“Don't move,” the alien male said. He had Jim's phaser leveled at the starship captain's head, hands wrapped tight around the weapon's grip. There was a glint of danger promising quick and brutal retribution in his sharp, narrowed eyes.

Slowly, Jim put up his hands. With great care not to make any sudden movements, he rolled off the prone body of the female alien, and rose to a kneeling position before the male guard. “Shit,” he swore loudly, “looks like you've got me.”

The male alien's lips curled back in a triumphant grin. “Yes, Captain, it seems that I have, And now I will drag you out before my Empress to answer for your insubordinate behavior. You pathetic, incompetent excuse for a man.”

Jim whistled. “How long did it take to come up with that one? A year? A decade?”

“Be quiet,” the alien snarled, “or I will silence you myself, you disgusting, petty, unskilled menace.”

“Seriously?” Jim raised his eyebrows, grinning. “Your insults are worse than your face. I mean, everyone's got the right to be stupid sometimes, but at this point you're abusing your privileges.” 

The female alien had regained her feet, and was now lurking behind her male companion. She snarled over his shoulder at Jim. Her eyes blazed with unbridled hatred. “How is _he_ stupid?” she spat. “ _He_ is not the one on his knees, pathetic human.”

“You have no idea what I can do on my knees,” Jim shot back. He looked up at the male alien, then back to the female, and flashed her a not-so-subtle wink.

The male alien struck him across the face with a loud, vicious growl. Like a lion defending a kill. He shifted his body in front of the female, raising his fist—the one not holding the phaser—for a second blow.

As the strike fell, Jim surged upright, dodging to the side and wrapping his fingers around the alien's wrist. He spun behind the male Impersonator, turning the force of the blow against his opponent. With a vicious, sudden twist of his body, Jim unbalanced the creature and tossed him to the floor at his feet. In a half-second more, the captain had his phaser back, pried from the alien's unwilling fingers. But Jim didn't use the weapon. He didn't need to; not when his enemy was pinned and at his mercy, trapped against the hard floor and the crushing weight of Jim's knee against his spine.

The female alien let out a shriek of fury as Jim regained the upper hand. She was on Jim in an instant. He almost didn't register the blur of motion as she lashed out with all her considerable strength. Her blow caught him across the face, hard, and he reeled, blinking as stars burst across his vision. There was a loud ringing in his ears, and he could feel fresh, hot blood streaking down his face from his nose. 

Jim let out a hiss of pain, and dug his knee harder into the male alien's back, just between the creature's shoulder blades. He did his best to keep one opponent pinned even as the second continued to assault him, one blow after another falling with unending, deadly precision on his torso. Within seconds of engaging the female, his arms and chest were covered in new bruises; he could feel the blossoming patches of discomfort forming even through the natural numbing of the adrenaline in his bloodstream.

“Get off of him, or I will kill you,” the female hissed. She slipped around behind Jim, wrapping one arm around his neck and flattening her front against his back,. She clung with inhuman strength, like a starfish to a log piling. 

Jim choked, tipping his head back to try and get a breath. Unfortunately, doing so only afforded his enemy better access to his windpipe, and his airways were cut off completely. As his vision began to darken, angry red spots dancing before his eyes, Jim lifted his phaser. Reaching back over his head, he aimed it at where he hoped her face was, and fired. The hum of the weapon was far too loud and agitated, he realized a little too late. The blast that followed was explosive; far too powerful. 

The female gasped as the beam of particles hit her. Jim felt her body stiffen against his. And then she keeled over sideways, a gaping hole burned through one side of her face. She twitched, arms flailing and fingers curling into claws, before going absolutely limp.

Jim stared at her for a long moment, frozen with shock. His phaser hadn't been set to stun. It had been set to _fuck up shit permanently,_ and _oh, fuck,_ that was so totally _not_ what he'd meant to do.

Jim, immobilized temporarily by shock, nearly lost his grip on the second guard, who began to writhe beneath him, despite the pain that Jim's knee in his back must be inflicting. “You bastard!” the alien screamed. “I'll kill you, I'll rip you apart piece by piece!”

Jim didn't doubt it. He set his phaser back to stun, and shot the male alien in the chest without hesitation. The blast, much minimized in comparison to the kill-shot that the female had received, effectively rendered the hostile alien unconscious. Although for how long, Jim didn't know.

Jim was back on his feet in a nanosecond. Turning away from the dead female and the stunned male, Jim looked around desperately for some way out that didn't include running down potentially-guard-infested hallways.

He found his solution right away: a vent, covered only by a thin sheet of slatted metal, directly above his head. 

As he braced himself between the walls, holstering his phaser to free both his hands, he managed to reach the vent and push aside the cover. But just as he was about to climb up into the close, musty space, his fingers scrabbling to find purchase on the cool, slick metallic ledge, an odd hissing sound filled the corridor below him.

Jim looked down, and saw that the sound was coming from the female alien's body. The human skin was peeling away from her face, revealing a thick, grayish slime beneath. As the flesh rotted away in fast motion, a strange, slightly yellow-tinted gas was rising from the body with a dull hiss, like hot air escaping a boiling kettle. The gas, whatever it was, was drifting right up to the vent Jim was about to enter.

Fucking great.

Launching into action, Jim kicked off from the walls as hard as he could. He reached out and caught the ledge with both hands. The sharp, thin, metal edge cut into his palms, and he let out a sharp gasp of pain. Pulling himself up, he wedged his shoulders through the narrow gap, dragging the rest of his body in after him.

The vent was narrow. Too narrow, he found, to move at speed. Propped up on his elbows, he struggled to get away from the open hole in the passage behind him, desperate to escape from the yellow gas rising from the rapidly decaying body of his dead opponent below. He could see the two bodies through the occasional slits in the vent as he moved forward, the stunned male still sprawled and unconscious, and the dead female quickly turning into a pool of grayish, fizzing sludge. _Nasty._

Jim almost made it to the first bend in the vent before the gas caught up to him. It seeped in through cracks in the tight, dark airspace; he didn't realize it had mixed with the air around him until he took a breath in through his nose, and smelled the thick, strangely lemon-like tang of the foreign substance as it poured into his mouth and lungs. “Shit,” he breathed out, reaching up to draw his sleeve over his nose, lips, and eyes. As if that would do any good now. Whatever damage the gas could do to him, it was already as good as done.

Past the bend, the vent widened slightly, and Jim was able to get up on his hands and knees. Travel become much easier then, and faster. It didn't take him long to find the room where the prisoners were being kept. Creeping cautiously along with his belly pressed to the floor of the vent—more for stealth now than necessity—Jim, shimmied along the metal chute until he was positioned directly above the silent, watchful crowd in the closed space beneath him.

There were two guards. One by each door, their steely eyes cast out over the huddle of terrified prisoners. Easy targets, Jim thought, and took aim through a particularly wide slot in the vent floor.

They fell without even a scream, expressions of shock frozen on their face as the phaser blasts hit them. Jim was very careful not to kill them—he had no idea what the effects of the strange yellow gas might be on the various creatures in this room—but he _did_ make sure that both guards were well and truly down for the count before kicking his way through the ceiling, and dropping into the midst of the crowd.

The reaction to Jim's dramatic entrance was sudden, and overwhelming. The already on-edge aliens and humans in the room ducked and covered with shouts and cries as their captors fell, shielding their faces and diving for what little cover there was.

“It's fine!” Jim addressed the room in general, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I'm here to help you, not hurt you.”

“Jim!” Bones said, once again pushing his way through the throng in order to reach his captain's side. “Thank _god,_ you goddamn idiot, I thought…!”

“Bones,” Jim cut his friend off, grinning as he reached into his back pocket. “I got a present for you.” He pulled out the doctor's tricorder, pressing it against Bones' chest. “You have no idea what I went through for that thing. You're welcome.”

Bones snatched the tricorder from him, but didn't spare so much as a glance at it. His gaze was fixed on Jim, expression caught between fury and incredulity. There was a crease of worry between his eyebrows deep enough to put the Grand Canyon to shame. “How did you even _survive_?” he demanded to know. “I almost had a heart attack in here when they took you away in that damn bag, Jim!” he added. Because apparently his tense demeanor wasn't enough to convey the magnitude of stress that Jim had caused him. 

Jim shrugged, his grin widening. “Hey, what can I say, Bones? I'm immortal. I rose from the dead as soon as I was past the doors, and singlehandedly defeated the entire alien civilization with my bare hands.” He sidestepped to avoid Bones' retributive swat, laughing. “No, seriously, they're all dead! We can go back to the ship now.”

“You cocky bastard,” the doctor growled. He raised the tricorder threateningly, pointing it at Jim as if it were a weapon. “I want the real story. Now. And none of that souped-up bullshit.”

Jim sighed. He reach up to rub one hand across the back of his neck, which was still sore from the female Impersonator's headlock. “Spock saved me,” he admitted. “Big shocker there.”

Bones rolled his eyes, somehow managing to look even more grumpy and irritable than before. Jim wondered how that was even humanly possible, but then again, this was _Bones_ he was talking about. His CMO's default state seemed to be 'grumpy and irritable', even at the best of times.

“Speaking of that green-blooded menace,” Bones began, with a dose of his own singular brand of Southern charm, “where _is_ the Commander?”

Jim bit the inside of his cheek, wincing when his teeth grazed the cut he'd made in his own tongue. “He went to meet the Empress,” he said. “We split up; I went to the armory to get these--” he gestured to the phaser and tricorder, “--and he went to the Queen's Hall to negotiate.”

Bones frowned. “The Queen's Hall? You mean the throne room?”

“Yeah. Same thing.”

“What in the hell did the Empress want with _Spock_?” Bones asked, incredulous. “Did she actually _want_ to listen to him drone on about the importance of exploratory deep-space missions for hours on end?”

Jim smiled, the expression tinged with the first signs of his growing exhaustion. As the adrenaline of his fight and flight response wore off, waves of weariness crashed over him like breakers on a rugged shore. If he could have, he would have flopped down on the floor right then and there, and slept for the rest of the foreseeable future.

But, as was usually the case in his chaotic shit-storm of a life, that was simply not an option.

“Bones,” Jim said, reaching out and grasping his friend's shoulder to make sure he had the doctor's undivided attention. “I need you to get everyone out of here. Fast. As soon as I get that door open, I want you all moving. Got it?”

“Jim...” Bones began, gaze darkening dangerously.

“Bones,” Jim parroted. “Their safety's first priority.”

“Where are we going, then?” Bones asked, tone sharp as a honed blade. “There are more than fifty lifeforms in this room, Jim, are you telling me you want us all to run pell-mell through the corridors until we _happen_ on a way out?”

“No, of course not,” Jim said, playing at wounded. “Oh ye of little faith! I've got a great plan this time.”

“Does it involve anyone faking their death?” Bones said dryly. “If so, count me out.”

Jim shook his head. “I just need you to get them to the transporter room.”

This managed to bring Bones up short. The doctor stared at Jim for a long moment, then said, “Have you lost your goddamn _mind?_ These creatures don't even have _starships._ What in Sam Hill would they need a _transporter_ room for?”

Jim laughed. “It's for transporting supplies down from the surface,” he corrected. “I saw it marked on a map of the vent system they've got stuck inside of the vent tunnel. Thing is,” he added, cutting Bones off before the doctor could start again, “it's the closest accessible room to the surface, as far as I could tell. If we barricade ourselves inside, all we have to do is wait for the asteroid shower to end—a couple days, at most—and get communications to the _Enterprise_ back online. Should be easy, once we're out from under half a mile of rock and dirt.”

Bones looked like he wanted to keep arguing, but couldn't think of anything specific enough to bring up. “Fine,” he conceded at last. “But I don't like it, Jim.”

“I know you don't, Bones.” Jim clapped him on the shoulder. “Trust me, it'll work.”

“Every time you say that,” the doctor grumbled, “everything goes to hell in about three seconds flat.”

Jim counted. “See? Three seconds, and everything's still relatively fine.” He flashed Bones a grin as he started for the door, leaning down to snatch the access key-card off of one of the stunned alien guards as he passed.

“Relative to what?” Bones wondered aloud. “The end of civilization as we know it?

Jim ignored his CMO's retort, and set to work wedging open the door. Even with the key-card to unlock it, he found that getting the enormous slab of solid steel to shift was much easier said than done.

Once the door was open, Jim checked to make sure that the hall ahead was clear. It was, thank god. 

Turning back toward the watchful, waiting crowd in the room behind him, Jim motioned for them to follow him. “C'mon,” he said to Bones, keeping his voice low just in case someone in the next passage over was listening. “Just look for signs or maps, and keep moving until you're in the highest room up. I'll rendezvous with you once I've got Spock. And Bones? Unless I give the right password, don't let me in. These aliens we're dealing with are impersonators; if they kill me and take my body, they could sound and look just like me.”

“I doubt it,” Bones said, “no alien in this place is half as annoying as you, kid. I'd bet money on that fact.” He paused, letting out a soul-deep sigh that told Jim he'd rather be anywhere else in the universe. “What's the password?” he asked after a long moment, obviously reluctant to know.

Jim grinned. “Glad you asked,” he said. “If it's me, the password will be 'Captain Sexy Pants.' But if it's Spock, it'll be 'Commander Sexbomb.' God it?”

“I swear to god, Jim,” Bones said, and lifted the tricorder to prod Jim in the chest, hard. “Once we're back on the ship...”

“You're gonna hypo me into next month?” Jim guessed, laughing. “Looking forward to it.” He reached out and put one hand on Bones' shoulder. “Get them to the room,” he lowered his voice, meeting the doctor's gaze evenly. Smiling in what he hoped was an encouraging manner, he added, “I'll join you soon.” 

“You better,” Bones shot back. Jim could feel his friend's eyes on him even as he eased his way into the crowd, and started back toward the door at the other end of the room.

As Jim scanned the key-card and struggled to pry open the door leading to the corridor to the Queen's Hall, he heard Bones call for the assembled prisoners to follow him out. _Good,_ Jim thought, relief blossoming in his chest as he turned to watch the room empty out. _He'll get them somewhere safe. I know it._

Once the last of the prisoners had disappeared from sight, Jim slid through the small opening between the door and the wall, and stepped out into the corridor beyond. _Hold on, Spock,_ he thought. _I'm coming._

He took off at a sprint down the hall, phaser gripped tightly by his side.

* * * * * * *

He heard Spock's voice even before he entered the Queen's Hall. The familiar, even tones resonated off of the high, curving walls of the throne room, echoing faintly down the hall where Jim stood, tilting his head to listen.

“I do not believe you are seeing my point,” Spock was saying. Despite the seemingly flat, emotionless words, Jim could sense a faint undercurrent of frustration in his First Officer's voice. He wondered how long this argument—if that was what it was—had been going on. “If you do not release us and allow us safe passage back to our ship, it will soon be discovered that you have taken us hostage. And, although I have seen how you and your subjects seem to pride yourselves on your perceived superior wit and battle tactics, there is a large difference between capturing the _Enterprise's_ away team when they do not yet know of your existence, and going up against the _Enterprise_ itself. If it comes to open battle between your forces and Starfleet's flagship, Empress, I have calculated the odds of your survival at 0.02 percent. 0.001 percent, should the officers about the _Enterprise_ learn of our captain's demise.” 

“Enough,” snapped the Empress—Jim recognized her voice from before. “You will be silent, Vulcan, or I will have my guards silence you.”

Creeping forward, Jim reached the edge of the corridor, and sank into a predatory crouch. Hidden by the curve of the wall to his left, he craned around until he could see most of what was going on. He held his phaser tightly in his right hand, the grip already slick with sweat from his brief but intense run from the prison room.

“Empress,” Spock said evenly. Jim could see him now, hands clasped behind his back, posture as upright and perfect as always. “I am not threatening you in any way. I am simply stating predictions I have made based on the information that is currently available to me. Should the current circumstance change...”

“You mean, if I let you escape?” the Empress sneered. She lounged in her throne, dark dress spilling down around booted ankles. Her raven hair was swept up in a severe bun atop her head. As she looked down at Spock, who was flanked by an escort of four burly guards, her eyes flashed furious fire. 

Spock lifted his head slightly. “I am not asking you to allow me to escape,” he said. “To do so, from your perspective, would be illogical. I am merely requesting that you rethink your position, and reassess what you mean to gain by taking us into your custody. Since you have already killed our captain...”

The Empress cut him off once more. “Your captain,” she spat, “was a weak, soft man. Norik--” she gestured to one of the guards; the tall one, whom Jim immediately recognized from the prison room, “--killed him with a single blow. Which means that Norik, a lowly guard among thousands, is a stronger and better man than your pathetic human captain ever was. And Norik is not even a man.” She finished her taunt by spitting to the side. Norik laughed, and spat at Spock's feet in a gesture that mirrored his ruler's.

Spock did not reply, but Jim saw his First Officer's fingers curl into the beginning of a fist.

Jim took this as his cue to enter. Standing up, he strolled casually into the open, phaser already raised and firing. Before anyone in the room could react, three of the four guards had already fallen, stunned, in crumpled heaps. The forth—Norik, the tall one—whirled around, reaching for his own weapon—another phaser, Jim realized, and wondered if the alien had taken it from one of the two dead crewmen, or from Spock. Not that it mattered. Jim was about to take it back, anyway.

“Stop right there!” Norik screamed, lips drawn back in a furious snarl. He lifted his phaser, aiming it at Jim's chest. “I'll kill you, you...” But then he seemed to recognize Jim, and his eyes went wide. “You...” he started to say, but that was as far as he got. He stopped dead suddenly, eyes bugging out as the phaser dropped from his hand.

“Your timing is most impressive, Captain,” Spock said calmly. He had one hand wrapped around Norik's neck, fingers clamped down hard on the creature's exposed nerve. The alien guard fell, floppy and limp as a dead fish, at the Vulcan's feet. “Although I do not see the purpose in waiting in the corridor for an additional two point five minutes before coming to my aid.”

“I didn't want to interrupt your speech.” Jim grinned, moving forward to stand at his First Officer's side. “Seriously, though; you were killing it out there, Spock. Nice job.”

Spock's eyebrows contracted, and Jim saw a flash of confusion in his dark eyes. “Killing what, sir?” 

“It's an expression,” Jim explained with a laugh. He clapped his First Officer on the shoulder. “Don't worry about it.”

Turning his attention back to the Empress, who had risen from her throne with a furious cry, Jim put in place his most devilish, dashing smile. “Well,” he said, “guess I'm not such a pathetic loser human after all. So how do you want to do this?” He lifted his phaser, aiming it at the alien queen's chest. She had been moving as if to attack them, but stopped dead when she saw the weapon in his steady hand. “My phaser, or his fingers?” Jim jerked his head at Spock. His smile grew broader, eyes sparkling with the barely contained ecstasy of victory. 

“Captain,” Spock said, “it would be more prudent if you would simply...”

“I know, Spock, god.” Jim sent a bright flash of particles straight into the Empress' chest; the alien crumpled like her fallen guards, stunned, on the sleek floor of the throne room. He turned to his First Officer, rolling his bright blue eyes in mock exasperation. “There, you happy?”

“I am Vulcan,” Spock said. “I do not experience joy.”

Jim holstered his phaser, and leaned down to retrieve the second weapon from Norik's limp form. He pressed it into Spock's hand. As he did, Jim thought back on all of the thinly veiled smirks, the glints of satisfaction he'd seen in Spock's eyes whenever the half-Vulcan managed to beat Jim at chess, or was proved right in one of their many disagreements. “Hey, do you smell that?” Jim said, sniffing the air as they headed back toward the prison room.

Spock frowned ever so slightly. “No, Captain, I am not currently aware of any unusual smells.”

“Huh. Well, to me, it kinda smells like a pile of bullshit,” Jim said cheerfully. He took off down the corridor at a brisk jog, flashing a mischievous grin over his shoulder at his First Officer as he passed him by. “Race you to the highest room in the complex?”

Predictably, Spock did not engage him. Instead, the half-Vulcan sped up until he was a few feet behind Jim, blue-clad body moving in a perfectly fluid, efficient gait. Every time Jim sped up, Spock sped up just enough to match the new pace, but never made so much as a single attempt to pass. 

Which, Jim thought, was about a billion times more annoying than if Spock had simply blown by him.

Fucking Vulcans, man.

* * * * * * *

They had almost made it back to the prison room when a loud shout up ahead stopped Jim in his tracks. Spock, who seemed to have sensed the danger a few seconds before the captain, had already come to a dead halt in the hallway behind him.

“ _Ki'ithi nami shiri'ki,_ ” one alien was saying, voice raised in obvious fury. Switching to English—for the benefit of any humans who may be listening, Jim realized—he added, “We know that the Empress has fallen! We can feel it in our shared minds, you pathetic creatures. We are one! If you hurt her, we know. And you have! Now, we will deal out the most brutal retribution upon the ones who harmed her. You had better pray to whatever gods you have that we do not find you.”

Jim turned to look at Spock. “Shit,” he hissed, “what now?”

“I believe,” Spock replied, “that our best course of action would be to run away, Captain.”

“Agreed,” Jim said, and took off back the way they'd come. _Guess we're finding another way up to the highest room._

So far, this entire mission had just been one enormous clusterfuck after another.

And it was nowhere near over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have named the dark, slimy, slightly evil creature lurking in my subconscious (who is responsible for my writing) 'Shelby.' I don't know why, but that name just fits her. Anyway, she was having a VERY HARD TIME with this chapter. So, uh... yeah. Sorry if it's a bit of a mess. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who left me comments and/or kudos on the last two chapters!!! <3 I appreciate the support and inspiration more than I can say. Y'ALL ARE AWESOME! :,D


	4. Arc #1: Gemini: Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Spock run away from aliens. As usual, the plan (or lack thereof) doesn't work out exactly the way Jim expected.

Arc #1: Gemini

Chapter Four

____________________________________

Sirens began to scream, lights flashing through the hallways as Jim and Spock raced toward the Queen's Hall. They reached the enormous room, and, finding the guards and their ruler still stunned, continued past it into the corridor beyond.

“Ow, my side,” Jim complained breathlessly. Without breaking stride, he reached down and clamped one hand hard over his left flank.

Spock glanced at Jim, dark eyes filled with concern. “Are you injured, Captain?”

Jim shook his head. He dashed through another open doorway, up a sloping incline, and past what looked like some sort of freezer room. “Just a side-ache,” he explained, grimacing. “I don't know if you'd noticed, but there's not a whole lot of oxygen down here.”

At the end of the hall was an archaic elevator, consisting of a large wooden board attached to four ropes and a pulley.

Jim came to a dead halt when he reached it. “Ah, come on,” he groaned. He turned back toward his First Officer, shaking his golden head. “We have to turn around,” he said. “Only one of us can go up this way.”

Spock lifted one eyebrow. “Have you considered the possibility that the two of us may be able to operate this mechanism while standing on the lift?” he said evenly.

Jim glanced back at the pulley system, frowning. “You think we can lift all that while _both_ of us are standing on it?”

Spock inclined his head. “I am capable of lifting upwards of three times what you can, sir,” he reminded Jim. “I believe that it will work.”

Reaching up to run one hand through his hair, Jim nodded. They couldn't risk any more delays. “Yeah, okay. Let's do this.” He took a deep breath, absently rubbing the throbbing muscle in his side again. “After you, Mr. Spock.”

They had just stepped up onto the lift and began the painfully difficult process of pulling themselves up when the hoard of guards from the prison room entered the hallway just beyond where Jim and Spock stood. A small segment of them, four strong, had split off from the main search unit, and happened down the right hallway at the right time.

“ _Akin amadi'i_!” the creature at the front yelled, pointing. “Get them!”

Jim swore enthusiastically. “Keep pulling!” he growled, throwing all his weight against the rope. The rough, fibrous pull-string scraped against the cuts on his palms; he ignored the sharp sting and clung to it with all his considerable willpower and strength.

“They will reach us moments before we reach the next level,” Spock pointed out. The serene expression on his face did nothing to give away the effort the rest of his body was exerting Gravity fought hard to bring them back down, and every inch gained was won only after a ferocious struggle.

“The countdown's not helping, Commander,” Jim said, wincing as another shock of pain shot down his arms from his now-bloody hands. “Save the ' _Your Plan is Shit'_ spiel for later.”

The aliens were approaching with all the fury and speed of a herd of charging bulls. They hissed commands to one another in their strange, rolling foreign tongue, reaching back to unholster weapons ranging from cruelly curved knives, to crude dart guns.

“At least these assholes are still stuck in the technological stone age,” Jim said, glancing up at the ledge above them. They were getting closer now; safety was only ten feet away. _Still too high to jump,_ Jim thought. He bit his bottom lip as a wave of mixed exhilaration and nerves washed through him.

“Without our phasers, our pursuers do seem rather ill prepared,” Spock agreed mildly. The half-Vulcan had both hands wrapped tight around the lift's pull-string, muscles straining beneath his blue shirt as he hoisted himself and his captain toward the elusive promise of safety only a couple meters away.

The creatures were fifty feet away. Forty. Thirty.

“ _Harder_ , Mr. Spock!” Jim yelped, and oh _god_ , that phrase was so incredibly sexual even in proper context.

“Captain!” Spock said, urgency a faint undercurrent in his otherwise neutral tone. “Climb up the rope, and hold it steady once you have reached the top. I will follow you.”

Jim obeyed immediately. After all, a Vulcan plan was usually a bulletproof plan, in his not-so-limited experience.

Spock pulled himself up and landed beside Jim on the carpeted floor. Moments later, the first darts began to fly. Ducking a shot headed for his chest and falling back against the nearest wall, Jim turned to Spock, gripping his First Officer's shoulder in one bloodstained hand. “Run!” he yelled.

Side by side, they took off down the hall, away from the curses and calls of their pursuers. Once they'd gone far enough to be mostly out of danger of the aliens' crude guns, Jim turned back in the direction they'd come from, his phaser raised and ready to fire. Taking careful aim, he fired a single shot at the pulley and rope attached to the lift. The glowing beam went clean through the rope; Jim heard a satisfying _CLANG-CLUNK_ as the archaic elevator fell heavily back to the level below. “Got it!” he shouted, ecstatic.

“A well aimed shot, Captain,” Spock said. “However, I suggest that we do not linger. It is not prudent to celebrate such brief victories.”

Jim snorted, rolling his eyes, but heeded Spock's suggestion nonetheless. As they rounded yet another bend and started up an incline heading steadily toward the surface far above, he said, “That should be the name of your first album, Mr. Spock: _Brief Victories._ Has a good ring to it.”

Spock's eyebrows contracted. “Had I previously expressed a desire to create a musical album, sir?” he asked. “I do not recall doing so.”

Jim laughed, the explosive sound a lot louder than he'd intended. He couldn't help it—the expression, subtle as it was, on Spock's face was comically sincere. “No, no,” he amended. “I just meant, y'know. Sometimes humans make weird jokes. Never mind. Forget it.” He waved it off, still chuckling.

His amusement was cut short a moment later when Spock said, “I believe that the title ' _Brief Victories_ ' would be more befitting of your life and experiences than my own, Captain.”

Jim stared at his First Officer in open astonishment. But then he grinned, blue eyes sparkling with a new kind of mirth. “Did I just get burned by a Vulcan?” he said. He shook his head. “This has got to be an all time low.”

“I do not understand,” Spock said, “how my statement could possibly have caused any part of you to catch fire.”

Jim burst out laughing again, and didn't stop until the cramp in his side returned full-force. The combination of running uphill, the less-than-ideal oxygen levels in the alien complex, and his continued laughter weren't doing anything to alleviate the sharp, biting pain.

They rounded another corner, and Spock came to a halt so fast Jim nearly smacked into him. Coming to a stop himself, the captain glanced at his First Officer inquisitively. “What's up?” he asked.

“The passage ahead,” Spock said, “is a dead end.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

Spock nodded to the upward curve of the hallway before them. Through the dimness of the overhead lights, Jim could just make out the faint outline of a door. “Dammit,” he sighed. _So the shit-storm continues._

Spock began walking, climbing up the steep incline to where the door, in all its thick, immovable metal glory, stood like a sentinel guarding a famous tomb. The half-Vulcan pressed both hands against the door, long fingers ghosting across the shiny chrome surface. “I believe,” he called back to Jim, who was still in the passage below him, “that this door will not move unless you assist me in forcing it to do so.”

Jim was at his First Officer's side in an instant. Rubbing the blood from his hands off on his pants—at this point none of his clothes were salvageable, anyway—he moved into position beside Spock, pressing his shoulder against the door. “Are we trying to break it down, or…?” he began to ask.

Spock cut him off not with words, but with a quick, sharp look. “Captain,” he said evenly, “it would be impossible for us to, as you put it, 'break it down'. However, there is a good chance that we may be able to push it inward, once I have disabled the lock.”

Jim reached up to rub the back of his neck with one hand, grinning sheepishly. “Right. I knew that,” he said. Spock didn't even spare him the expression of disbelief that Jim knew his friend would be wearing.

It took Spock under a minute to figure out just what was keeping the door shut and bolted tight, and another one and a half minutes for Jim to bust the mechanism open using only his fingers and the metal Starfleet insignia he had torn from his uniform. When the door clicked open, grinding on its hinges as the two of them simultaneously threw their weight against its surface, Jim turned to Spock with a wide, bright grin. “Like I said, Mr. Spock,” he said. “We make a great team.”

On the other side of the enormous metal door was a dark, circular room with no apparent ceiling that Jim could see. As far up as he could see—which wasn't that far, given the heavy, blank gloom that had settled over this corner of the complex—was a massive, ascending spire of tiny, glowing, flickering, multicolored electronic lights. “Is this some kind of power source?” Jim guessed, frowning contemplatively as he approached the center of the room where the tower stood, like a pillar holding up the inky black sky.

Spock followed close behind. “I believe that this is the center of all electronic power within the complex,” he agreed. “Despite their many technological shortcomings, the Morrowi do seem quite capable of harnessing electrical power for their own use.”

“Which is why they're so interested in us,” Jim added. He stopped a few meters from the base of the wire-covered, flickering spire, and crossed his arms over his chest. “They've figured out this much, but they've still got a hell of a ways to go before they reach anything close to what we've got on the _Enterprise._ ”

Spock inclined his head. “They no doubt took us as prisoners in order to ascertain the methods used in the building of more advanced engines, computers, and weapons. Which is also why they captured the multiple other starship crews of varying species and origins that were also unfortunate enough to land on Gemini III.”

Jim nodded. He took another step toward the pillar, eyes cast upward to where the thousands of glowing, pulsing, green, red, and blue lights faded as the spire continued up and up into the impenetrable, gaping void above. “I'm glad they never got around to interroga--” he began, but was cut off when Spock seized him by the back of his gold command shirt, pulling him back away from the pillar.

“Careful, Captain!” Spock said. He released Jim's shirt, but stayed poised and tense, watching his captain with a hint of steel in his dark eyes. “There is a channel cut in the floor directly ahead of us, around the base of the control spire. Although I am unsure of the nature of the substance it contains, I would not hesitate to guess that it is likely dangerous.”

Jim ran a hand through his hair, taking a short, sharp breath in through his nose. “Jesus, Spock,” he said. “Do you have any idea how many times I would be dead if it weren't for you?”

“Approximately two hundred and fifty times, Captain,” Spock replied promptly. “Excluding all instances where my absence would have resulted only in your minor or serious injury. And assuming that you would be able to die on multiple occasions without staying deceased.”

Jim laughed, surprised and delighted at the prompt and specific answer. “You're keeping score,” he said with playful accusation. Moving forward once more (and much more cautiously now) he began to loop around to the back of the pillar, looking for a door on the other side of the room. After all, they still needed to get back to Bones and the other captives. As soon as possible.

“Captain,” Spock said, and Jim immediately picked up the trace of unexpected urgency in his First Officer's tone. “There are four Morrowi approaching this room. They will be here in under a minute.”

Jim swore. Turning around, he pulled out his phaser, lifting it and taking aim at the door. “I could shoot them as they come through,” he mused, setting his phaser to stun, “or--” he set it back to kill, and closed one eye as he took careful aim at the door's lock, “--I could just do _this--”_ he sent a blast straight into the heart of the door's lock mechanism, effectively melting it into place and slamming the door shut all in one shot, “--and let them think there's no way in.” He grinned as he turned to Spock, more pleased with himself than the situation actually warranted.

Now, with the door closed completely, the darkness was almost overwhelming. The only light left was the soft, almost nonexistent glow of the lights covering the electronic spire at the room's center.

Just seconds after Jim broke the lock, the sound of alien voices became audible outside. The voices were followed by the heavy, dull thuds of fists against metal as the creatures attempted to break down or wrench open the door.

“Captain, I suggest we attempt to find another way out of this room,” Spock said. “In the highly likely event that they eventually find a way to remove that door, they will likely kill us rather than attempt to recapture us.”

“At this point, yeah,” Jim agreed. In the darkness, his voice echoed back at him from the curved walls, the muted tones dull and hollow as an old drum. “Alright; you go left, I'll go right. Let's see if we can't get the hell out of here.”

Separating, the two men started to walk in opposite directions around the edge of the enormous electrical column, careful to avoid touching the liquid moat surrounding it.

After a few minutes of searching in vain, they regrouped in front of the door, which was now beginning to dent and bend under the tireless onslaught of their Morrowi pursuers. “Fuck me,” Jim said under his breath. “Guess we're trapped.”

Spock was quiet for a long moment. The fierce, rattling sounds of the aliens trying to break down the door was jarringly noticeable against the backdrop of silence. But then, he said, “Unless we attempt to climb the tower itself, Captain. It is possible that it leads to other doorways or vent openings.”

Jim looked back up at the electronic column to his left. At the soft, ever-changing flickering and pulsing of thousands of indicator lights. “It's worth a shot,” he agreed. “If we can get past the moat. Which,” he continued, carefully sliding his feet across the concrete floor until he stood on the very brink of the unknown liquid in question, “might not be that hard, depending on how many wires are sticking off of it.”

Even without being able to see his First Officer's face, Jim knew immediately that Spock did not like this idea. “That plan,” the half-Vulcan began, “is based entirely on an unfounded assumption that--”

“I know,” Jim cut him off, “but what other choice do we have?”

Spock was silent.

“Hold on.” Jim raised his phaser, flicking it to the lowest setting. Aiming just to the left of the column, he fired several shots, one after the other, that lit up even the darkest, most remote corners of the room. “There,” he said when the blasts illuminated several long, twisting wires bulging outward from the mass of twisted cables twining around the pillar. “We can grab onto those and pull ourselves up. No problem.”

Now completely flash-blinded by the phaser blasts, Jim had to strain his eyes to make out even the brightest flashes on the electronics tower as he and Spock edged around the strange, eerily glassy liquid, positioning themselves directly across from where they'd seen the longest, thickest wires. Crouching down, Jim flexed his fingers, subconsciously digging his teeth into his bottom lip as he prepared himself mentally for the jump. “I'll go first,” he said. “That way, if I fall in, you'll be able to rescue me.” He tried not to let his nerves show through his tone of voice. After all, the gap between the edge and the pillar wasn't exactly an easy leap away. He swallowed. “If one of us is going to fall in, Mr. Spock, it's not going to be you. That's for sure.” He forced a smile.

“Of course, Captain,” Spock replied. “Given the superior strength and dexterity that my race possesses, I am inclined to agree with you.”

Jim rolled his eyes. It was so dark that Spock couldn't see him anyway, so no big deal. “If I didn't know better,” he said, muscles tensing as he inhaled deeply and prepared to leap, “I'd say you're bragging.”

He jumped. For a long, desperate moment, he was airborne, hands stretched out before him, legs tucked up against his abdomen, over the gaping moat of icy black liquid. And then his feet struck the base of the tower, and his hands found purchase around the thick, insulated wires looping out from the tower. He clung, breathing hard as relief overwhelmed him, and adjusted himself so that he was half-wrapped in cables. Secure. “Alright,” he called over to Spock. “I'm on. Come over whenever you're--”

Spock landed, cat-like, beside him, cutting off the rest of his sentence. Jim could just make out his First Officer's face illuminated by the dull glow of a set of flashing blue lights just above their heads. “You were saying, Captain?” Spock said, with just the faintest hint of triumph in his tone.

Jim huffed. “Showoff.” Reaching up, he sought out the next highest loose wire, pulling himself up the tower. This turned out to be a lot harder than he'd expected—the metal beneath the wires was smooth, slick, and nearly impossible to find a foothold on—and he almost fell several times before he made it to the first of a series of ledges sticking out from the main column. “Maintenance decks,” he said as he scrambled up onto the first one. “Hey, Spock! Up here.”

His First Officer joined him a moment later. Although Jim was out of breath from the dangerous and difficult first ascent, Spock didn't seem to be anywhere close to winded. Spock knelt beside Jim on the small protrusion of metal, one hands still wrapped in a wire--in case the deck's supports failed, Jim guessed—and looked up at the climb of unknowable length that they still had to make.

“You ready to go?” Jim said after a long silence, through which his breathing was the only sound.

“After you, Captain,” Spock replied evenly.

Jim straightened up as much as he dared—the ledge was precariously slick and narrow—and launched himself upward. The cuts on his hands ached dully and persistently as he grasped the narrow wires. His body hurt everywhere, he was beginning to realize. The adrenaline (and the drug, most likely) in his blood had been keeping him from noticing until now, but now that he was noticing it, the only thing he wanted to do was drop back down to that ledge, curl up on his side, and pass out for a few years.

The next ledge was only thirty or so feet up from the first, but the climb to it was excruciatingly difficult. Not only were there virtually no footholds, but the stabilizing beams that had been present nearer the bottom of the column were now too far below to be of any use.

“Captain,” Spock called up to Jim. “It is no longer possible for me to see the base of the tower. I estimate that we are nearing one hundred meters above the ground.”

Jim took in a deep breath through his mouth, and let it out slowly through his nose. Keeping perfectly calm was of the utmost importance. If they both wanted to get out of this place alive, they would have to keep usually alarming facts—such as the fact that, at the moment, one misstep or slip would mean a long and almost certainly deadly fall into an unknown liquid—from, well, _being alarming. “_ Got it,” he called back down. “Fall, and you're dead. So just don't fall. Easy enough.”

Jim reached the second ledge with only a few near misses. Pulling himself up onto the smooth, blissfully horizontal surface, he turned to watch Spock finish the second leg of their ascent. Once the half-Vulcan was safely by his side again, Jim let the tension bleed out of his shoulders, and allowed himself a few minutes to relax, stretch his muscles, and prepare himself for the next climb.

“Are you adequately prepared to further exert yourself, Captain?” Spock asked, and Jim recognized the barest hint of concern in his First Officer's voice.

He shook his head with vehement certainty. “Sometimes I can't tell if you're insulting me, or just underestimating me,” he said. Spock didn't grace this with an answer, so instead, Jim added, “Fuck yeah, I'm ready to go.” He began to climb again with as much energy and gusto as he could muster.

He made it almost twenty feet up from the ledge before it happened: he slipped, his foot sliding along a patch of bare, slick metal, and, with a shout, reached out and seized the nearest wire with both hands. The cable was thin and bare; the insulation slid off as Jim's weight fell onto it. The cruelly sharp narrowness of the bare wire caused it to slip into the cuts across Jim's palms, sinking into his skin and drawing a fresh torrent of blood. Jim's mind went blank as white-hot pain rushed through his hands, and up into his arms. Without thinking, without meaning to, he let go of the wire and fell, sprawled midair as he dropped away from the tower, toward the unforgiving floor and dark, untouched moat far below. He let out a cry of unfettered fear and surprise.

 _“Jim...!”_ Spock turned and caught Jim by the front of the shirt as he fell past, the half-Vulcan's long, nimble fingers fisting desperately in the slick, thin material of the captain's clothes. For one moment, one horrifying moment, Jim saw Spock slip, his hold on the tower failing. But then Spock grabbed hold of a particularly solid, thick cable, and they both stabilized. Jim's free-fall came to an end with a jarring jolt.

At that moment, the crashing sounds of the aliens attempting to get through the door finally ceased. Jim held his breath, still dangling out over the void with only Spock's strength (reliable) and the durability of his shirt (much less reliable) between him and sudden, painful death. He listened to the sound of a hoard of booted feet clumping across concrete and metal, and his heart, already pounding in his chest, missed a beat. “Shit,” he breathed. “They're in.”

Spock froze completely. He was like a statue, muscles bulging with the effort of holding both himself and his captain up. Even in the darkness, Jim could see the lines of tension in his First Officer's straining neck, shoulders, and back, and did his best not to be a limp deadweight.

“Look around!” one alien shouted. Jim risked a glance down, and saw that they had flashlights. His heart sank. If they happened to look up…

“Captain,” Spock said, his voice barely audible even though Jim was only a few feet below him. “Do not move.”

 _Where the fuck would I even go?_ Jim thought, in a moment of stress-fueled frustration. _The bathroom?_ But he didn't dare say it aloud. He knew Spock was right: if they were seen now, it was all over.

“They've got to be here somewhere,” another alien guard growled. The beam of his flashlight traveled far up the base of the tower, just barely avoiding passing over where Spock and Jim hung, before falling back down and sweeping across the floor. “Find them!”

 _Could this get any better?_ Jim thought. Again, that little sarcastic voice in his head needed to fuck off. Immediately, if at all possible.

Apparently, though, it _could_ get 'better.' As usual, Jim's own personal brand of bad luck saw to that.

Spock tightened his grip, fingers flexing through the relatively flimsy material of Jim's shirt, and the fabric began to rip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Shelby had a hard time getting this chapter done this week, which had something to do with the fact that it was "end of summer Family Time™" at my house this week. So yeah. That's why I didn't get as much done this week. xD (Also, I might just be lazy, but shhhh, that's totally not the reason...)
> 
> But anyway! I would absolutely adore to hear any and all thoughts on this chapter. It would be fantastic to know what y'all thought! <3


	5. Arc #1: Gemini: Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock and Jim escape one shit situation, and immediately fall into another one. Jim is most definitely a danger magnet, and it's taking decades off of Spock's life.

Arc #1: Gemini

Chapter Five

____________________________________

Jim's shirt ripped from the shoulder to the neck, the fabric sliding free of Spock's grip. Jim fell away from Spock with a muffled cry. As he dropped out into the waiting gloom, he attempted one last desperate maneuver to save himself from certain death: reaching out, he barely managed to seize Spock's booted foot, wrapping both arms tightly around his First Officer's leg. His second fall came to an abrupt end. The only difference was, now he was in dire danger of pulling Spock down with him. Not exactly an improvement.

Down below, the heated arguing of the aliens stopped mid-rant. Jim held his breath, his stomach uncomfortably pressed against the prickling wires and dials of the electronic tower. As the silence stretched on, he hoped fervently that they hadn't heard his short, panicked shout. Because if they had...

“ _Akili ami nathrai?_ ” The alien words were clearly a question. “ _Kini'in threli ish?_ ”

“You're hearing things,” one of the aliens cut his companion off, speaking perfect English. Jim guessed that it was easier for them to speak human dialects when in human form. Or something. “We'll find them, trust me. But not up that damned tower. They'd be electrocuted as soon as they touched a bare wire. Besides, I doubt they could jump the coolant trough. They're such fragile creatures.”

The first alien to speak muttered something incomprehensible, but didn't seem keen on continuing the argument. 

“Well, come on, then.” The second alien spoke to the room at large. “We've searched every crack they could hide in. There's no other way out. They must've tricked us, and doubled back the way they came.” His tone was half angry, half resigned. “Fragile they may be, but not stupid, it seems. Let's move out!” This command was followed a few seconds later by the slamming and locking of the enormous metal door as the guards exited the room. Once again, Jim and Spock were pitched into almost total blackness.

Jim exhaled slowly through his nose . “Holy fuck,” he breathed. “That was way too close.” 

“I do not believe,” Spock said, and Jim heard the strain in the half-Vulcan's voice, “that our predicament is entirely resolved yet, Captain.”

Jim, whose arms were beginning to shake from mixed exertion, strain, and adrenaline, sighed. “Any way you could reach down and pull me up, Mr. Spock? Preferably _before_ I fall to a premature death?

A moment later, Spock's free hand fisted in the back of Jim's shirt, hoisting him back up to where Spock clung to a particularly large and sturdy cable. He held on to Jim's shirt until it was obvious that the captain had found an appropriate set of foot and handholds; only then did Spock release his unwavering grip.

“Thanks,” Jim said. He held on tightly to the tower now, palms unhelpfully slick with sweat and blood. His entire body was tingling; whether from nerves or relief, he wasn't sure.

They continued the climb in silence, all of Jim's thoughts bent on the increasingly difficult task of not falling, or being electrocuted. The higher they went, the more numerous the bare wires became, until it was quite common to encounter a live wire, detached from the others, uninsulated and sparking with raw electricity. 

“Careful, Captain,” Spock said urgently, when Jim brushed against a (luckily) less-than-potent wire and received a vicious jolt to the leg. “I do not believe I will be able to catch you a second time, should you fall.”

“That's comforting,” Jim returned, forcing a grin to stave off the wave of nauseousness that hit him as he glanced down into the void. Spock was entirely hidden from his view; the dull, flickering lights of the tower allowed him very little illumination beyond the few feet ahead and behind him. “Be careful yourself,” he said. “Your copper blood's gotta be more conductive than my iron blood, right?”

“That is correct,” Spock said. “Although, due to the fact that my heart is located in my side rather than close to my left shoulder, I am far less likely to experience the negative cardiac effects of touching a live wire with my hands.”

Jim turned back toward the tower. He inhaled deeply, fighting off waves of lightheadedness that threatened to knock him off balance. The closer to the surface they got, the thinner the air was getting. Which, considering that the _Enterprise's_ initial scans of the planet's atmosphere had revealed that it mostly consisted of helium, with only minimal levels of oxygen nearer to the surface, was not that surprising. 

Not that encouraging, either.

Fifteen minutes passed in silence. Then thirty, then an hour. The darkness was oppressive, swallowing everything in its great, gaping maw. Jim's breath was like a hurricane in the absolute stillness. Every thud of flesh against metal was a hammer falling on an anvil. 

Finally, _finally_ , the climb came to an end. The tower rose up through a circular hole in the previously unseen ceiling, the great spire's top capped by an enormous, protective glass half-dome. There was just enough space around the outer rim of the tower to allow Jim and Spock to slip through the opening and emerge into the room above the one they'd just been in. The relief that Jim felt at having his feet back on solid ground was almost overwhelming.

“Are you hurt, Captain?” Spock asked as soon as they were both stable. 

“Huh?” Jim, who was still half-blinded by the brilliant overhead lights of this new room, squinted in confusion at his First Officer. It was only a few seconds later that he realized that his shirt, which was ripped open from his right shoulder to his left armpit, was covered in smears of dark red. He offered Spock a reassuring smile. “It's from my hands.” He held up his palms, fingers spread, to reveal the still-oozing gashes he'd gained from climbing up into the vent back in the heart of the alien complex.

Spock didn't exactly look happy, but he did look slightly relieved. “We should attempt to regroup with Doctor McCoy,” Spock said. “As soon as possible.”

Jim nodded. “I don't have any idea where we are. Guess we'll have to do some exploring.” He grinned. “My favorite.” 

Spock lifted one eyebrow. “As long as you do not sustain any more injuries, sir.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Aw, c'mon, Spock! I'm fine. Just some bruises and scrapes. Nothing I can't handle.”

Spock didn't say anything, but his expression tightened slightly. 

Jim started toward the curved door across the room from where they stood. At first glance, it seemed to be the only way in and out of the half-dome room, but when Jim looked more carefully, he realized that there was also what appeared to be a hatch—a trapdoor, of sorts—built into the highest part of the curving dome ceiling far above their heads. The only way to reach it would be to climb onto the glass shield covering the top of the electronics tower. 

“Captain!” Spock said, tone low and urgent. Jim looked at him, and saw that Spock had dropped into a defensive crouch, shoulders tense and one hand gripping his phaser tightly. “Someone is coming. We should take cover immediately.”

Jim mirrored Spock's crouch. Holding his own phaser up in front of him, he listened intently for whatever it was that had alerted Spock. In the distance, he caught the fainest sound of voices, and the gentle _thump, thump_ of approaching footsteps. He breathed a curse. 

Moving swiftly to Spock's side, he pointed out the trapdoor over the top of the tower. “Up there,” he said. “They'll check the door. They won't check there.”

“How do you know?” Spock returned. Jim, realizing that he actually had no argument to support his claim, said nothing. Instead, he just shrugged, cocking one eyebrow.

  


Behind the trapdoor was the narrowest, slipperiest ladder Jim had ever set foot on. Which was, considering his history of breaking and entering without any sort of plan formulated beforehand, saying a lot.

Spock went first, despite Jim's protests that they didn't know what awaited them in the darkness above. Spock insisted on it: it was, the half-Vulcan said, his duty as First Officer to protect his captain from any and all dangers. He would be remiss in his duties if he did not. Jim settled for keeping his phaser, and most of his attention, focused on the dark space above Spock as his friend ascended ahead of him. Just in case. 

At the top of the ladder, after what felt like hours of climbing, the pair of Starfleet officers found a ledge similar to the ones protruding from the electronic tower in the room below them. Spock lifted himself up first, then turned to stare down into the lightless passage, half-crouched to avoid hitting his head on the very low ceiling that hung above them now, as his captain finished the climb and joined him on the ledge.

“Now what?” Jim asked as he crouched beside Spock. He shivered slightly; the cold was deepening the closer they got to the planet's surface.

Spock was silent for a long moment. And then, through the dim glow, a faint light flared to life in the Vulcan's hands. A tiny, flickering cube of green and gold roughly the size of a Rubix cube, most likely taken from the electronics tower. “It is able to sustain satisfactory illumination on its own,” Spock said. He held it up, turning the two-toned cube to and fro before his face. “It is most likely powered by batteries, or some other form of stored internal energy.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Nice thinking,” he said. “It's always good to have a flashlight.”

“It does not flash,” Spock said dryly, “and I do not see any reason for it do so. However, should there be a need for such a function in the future, I may be able to--”

Jim shook his head, grinning widely, and cut Spock off by raising his hand. “No, Spock, it's fine. It's just what humans call hand-held lights. I don't even know why; I've never actually had a flashlight that flashes.”

“An illogical name for such a device, then,” Spock replied. A good point, Jim thought, and huffed out a laugh.

Using the glowing cube to light up the space around them, Spock and Jim were soon able to find the only way off of the ledge that didn't require them to climb back down the ladder, or else somehow break through the ceiling or walls. Located along the wall just over the ledge was a short, narrow metal door. The panel was made of some sort of steel-strength material; attempting to push it open or pull it back proved futile, and resulted only in Jim reopening the cuts on his hands.

“Captain,” Spock said in a hushed voice, after a few minutes of Jim's forcible attempts to gain entry to whatever passage or vent lay beyond the door. “I believe that there is some form of script carved into the concrete above the door.”

Jim paused, one bloody hand pressed flat against the smooth metallic surface, and looked up at what he had previously assumed was a blank, uninteresting stretch of concrete above the door. 

Spock lifted the glowing cube, lighting up the scrawling script and pictures carved into the wall. “It is the native language of the Morrowi,” the Vulcan said. “Perhaps if Lieutenant Uhura were here, she would be able to provide insight into the phonetic structure and probable pronunciation and meaning behind these words, but as it bears no similarities to either Vulcan or any Earth language that I know, I am unable to do more than guess at what it says.”

“And,” Jim said, standing up just enough that the carvings were at his eye-level, “what would you guess it says, Mr. Spock?”

Spock was quiet for a few seconds. “I would guess it is a warning, Captain,” he said evenly. “Concerning the predatory nature of the animals depicted in the space just above the script.”

Jim looked up, a little higher, as Spock raised the light to illuminate more of the wall. “Holy shit,” he breathed, when the glow caught in the delicate lines carved into dried, crushed stone. “What is that, an evil demon tiger?”

“A Canithor,” Spock corrected mildly. “One of the few native carnivores indigenous to this planet. Similar in build and anatomy to the tigers of Earth, with a few vital differences: Canithor, unlike Terran tigers, do not have retractable claws. The brief report on the species that I read prior to arriving on this planet stated that a rare type of highly poisonous, paralytic bacteria grows on this creature's claws, in a symbiotic relationship that allows both the transmittance of the bacteria from one host to another, and the incapacitation of prey.”

Jim let out his breath in a long whoosh. “You get scratched, you go limp, the bacteria have a new home, and the Canithor takes down an easy meal,” he paraphrased. “So, in short, evil demon tiger.”

Spock tilted his head. “We should avoid coming into contact with these creatures if at all possible, should we ever be forced to leave the confines of this facility,” he said.

“That's the understatement of the century,” Jim replied. Reaching forward, he traced the lines of the carvings, memorizing the features of the Canithor depicted. “You wanna help me break open this door?” He let his hands fall back onto the flat, metallic surface, fingers seeking out the cracks and hinges along its right edge. 

Spock nodded again. He brought the glowing cube down to study the structure of the door's frame, his eyes sharp with concentration. 

Working together, they combined wits and strength, and the very few tools available to them, to break through one of four hinges. After that, it was a simple matter of using the broken hinge as a lever to snap the bindings of the other three; once those were removed, the door fell inward with a dull, clanging sound at once.

“Where does it go?” Jim asked of no one in particular. Crouching lower, he motioned for Spock to give him the light. Holding it out in front of him like a torch, he slunk forward into the narrow, upward-sloping hole—because it really was more of a hole than a proper passageway—and into the unknown. 

“I believe,” Spock said, as he followed his captain into the dank darkness, “that this tunnel leads to the surface of the planet.”

Jim paused. The passage was growing narrower, and shorter, the deeper he went. There was no longer any room to turn around, or even glance back at Spock over his shoulder. He had fallen to his hands and knees, bracing himself against the slick walls of the passage as he climbed. “Fuck,” he groaned. “This isn't at all where I wanted to end up.”

“We could turn around,” Spock suggested mildly. 

Jim heaved a far-too-dramatic sigh. “Bones is gonna kill me,” he said. “We can't go back. He's got all the other prisoners locked in that storage room by now; if everything went according to plan, we'll just make it shittier for everyone if we try to rendezvous with him now. We'll have to find some other way to tell the _Enterprise_ where we are, and get back to the ship using only our quick wits, and scrappy survival skills.” He grinned, even though he knew no one could see him, because false bravery and calm were better than the alternative. “Sounds like a really bad reality show.”

Spock was silent, which Jim took to mean his First Officer wasn't buying the whole cavalier-about-the-potentially-fatal-situation act. Letting out his breath through his clenched teeth in a long, low hiss, Jim hung his head, briefly closing his eyes against the glow of the cube in his palm. “Alright, Mr. Spock,” he said. His eyes opened, and he clenched his hands into fists before releasing the tension cramping his shoulders and neck. “What's the most logical course of action here?”

“Well, Captain,” Spock began promptly, “the most logical course of action would be to stay here until we are sure that the Morrowi who were sent to search for us have returned to their usual duties, after which time we would attempt to regroup with Doctor McCoy and the others. Should we discover that they have already been beamed back aboard the _Enterprise_ , we would then need only to find some way to relay our coordinates to Mr. Scott, after which time we would also be beamed aboard. If we should find that, for some reason, the _Enterprise_ is still not able to take us back aboard at that time, however, then it would be most logical to do as you instructed Doctor McCoy, and barricade ourselves in a room close to the surface and containing enough technological implements to build a communication device capable of hailing the _Enterprise,_ and stay in contact with the ship until they are capable of beaming us up _._ ”

Jim considered this for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “It makes sense, yeah, but I'd hate to wait that long just doing nothing. For all we know, Bones and the others are in trouble. We can't risk waiting until the Morrowi give up on finding us. It'll take too long.”

Even without the privilege of seeing Spock's reaction, Jim could picture it perfectly in his mind's eye: veiled frustration, with just the tiniest hint of fondness lurking behind dark eyes. “It is illogical--” the Vulcan started, but Jim cut him off before he could start in on another 500 word rant.

“Yeah, it's illogical for _us_ , Spock,” Jim said. “But what about Bones? We can't just assume he's fine. I've got to find him, ASAP, just like I said. We'll just have to find some way around the guards.”

At that moment, before Spock could reply, the distant sound of heavy, booted feet on ladder rungs rang out through the dark void behind them. “Shit,” Jim hissed, and started moving forward again, up the narrow tunnel, away from the sound with as much speed as he could manage. 

“They seem to have located us, Captain.” Spock's voice was so soft that Jim barely caught the words over the thudding of his own hands and knees on the rocky floor of the passage. “There seems to be no choice now but to continue forward.”

“Great observation,” Jim panted. The cuts on his hand had broken open again as he pulled himself through the ever-narrowing tunnel. He was leaving a blood trail, he realized, and his heart sank. If the Morrowi had a light source, or even a really good sense of smell…

“I have detected a three point five degree Celsius drop in temperature during the past thirty seconds,” Spock said. Jim shivered—he'd felt the cold shift, too.

The tunnel ended abruptly in another door similar to the one at the top of the ladder. Holding the glowing cube up before his face, Jim struggled to get a better look at the hinges holding it shut. “Hold on,” he called back to Spock, who seemed to have come to a stop just behind him, although Jim couldn't hear anything over his own breathing and the too-fast beating of his heart.

“What can you see, Captain?” Spock asked.

“A door,” Jim said. Using his fingers and the broken hinge from the first door, which he had stashed in his pocket for future use, he pried away the first of the four metal bands holding the door to its frame. They came away with surprising ease—Jim figured it had something to do with the frigid temperatures, which had made the metal brittle.

“Jim,” Spock said, warning in his low tone, “I would not open that door without first attempting to discover what is on the other--”

“Too late.” The last hinge fell away onto the cold stone floor, clanging loudly in the close tunnel. Jim pushed himself back a few feet as the circle of solid metal fell forward into the passage in front of him. Immediately, the most vicious, biting wave of cold Jim could remember experiencing washed over him. Gritting his teeth against the painful chill, he ducked his head, holding his breath in his chest for fear of inhaling pure ice. 

“I believe,” Spock said dryly, “that you have found a route to the planet's surface, sir.”

Jim blinked, holding the cube of light up in a hand already shaking with cold. Ahead of him, outside of the tunnel, was pitch blackness that stretched on and on for as far as he could see. In the extreme distance, high above, the faintest glimmer of distant stars could be seen sprinkled across an inky sky. “We've got to get out of here,” he said. His breath was a billow of white against the glow of the cube. He shuddered involuntarily, gritting his teeth on a wave of bitter chill. “I'm going out. If something grabs me...” he tapered off mid-sentence, pausing a moment before finishing with, “...don't follow.”

Before Spock could reply, Jim launched into motion, scrambling up the steep incline beyond the broken door, and emerging into the dark, frigid landscape above. For a few seconds he stood perfectly still in the icy wind, only his head moving as he surveyed the terrain. _Holy shit,_ he thought, taking in the vast expanse of frozen rock and glacial-looking rivers of ice stretching away for miles and miles in ever direction. In the far distance, he caught sight of a line of dark against the star-flecked horizon: a forest, he guessed, or a city of tall buildings outlined against the dull light of two tiny moons hanging in the blackness overhead. Vividly, an image of the tiger-like beasts carved over the mouth of the tunnel they'd come through flashed through his mind's eye. If there was anywhere that creatures like those would be found, it would likely be in a jungle, Jim thought. 

He had just turned back toward the tunnel, intending to inform Spock that it was safe to emerge, and was not at all surprised to find that his First Officer was already standing beside him, having approached with all the silent stealthiness of a prowling cat. The half-Vulcan stood with his back completely straight, hands clasped at the small of his back. He said nothing, but it was obvious from his stiffer-than-usual posture and expression that he wasn't impressed by this latest turn of luck. And, that he was extremely cold.

Crossing his arms over his chest to keep himself from shivering, Jim offered Spock his best cocky, sure smile. “Not the warmest place ever,” he conceded, addressing Spock's unspoken complaint. “As long as we get back in contact with _Enterprise_ soon, though, we'll be fine.” 

Spock's eyebrow raised impossibly high. “And how do you propose we contact the ship, Captain?” he said, his voice nearly as cold as the wind that threw itself with vicious intent across the rugged, barren landscape. 

Jim swallowed. He winced as the icy air slid into his mouth, scorching his throat and sticking in his lungs. Ducking his head, he pressed his arms tighter against his chest and stomach. “Well,” he began, “we could--”

A sharp, chilling scream stopped him mid-sentence. The sound rose and fell like a siren, eery and wild as the wind carried it across the rock and ice. It lifted the hairs on the back of Jim's neck, and sent his heart immediately into overdrive as adrenaline flooded his veins. Instinctively, Jim crouched down, drawing his phaser and checking that it was on its highest setting. Spock crouched beside him, mirroring the captain's position. “What the hell was that?” Jim hissed, looking around with wide blue eyes.

“I do not know,” Spock said, voice so low it was hardly more than a whisper. “Although I could hazard to guess that it was the hunting cry of some wild animal. It seemed similar to the war cries of human warriors, or the howling of wolves in communication with one another during a hunt.” 

Jim swore. “You think it's a Canithor?”

“It is very possible,” Spock replied evenly. There was an underlying gravity to his otherwise neutral tone.

The scream sounded again, this time much closer. Jim lifted his head, urgently scanning the landscape for the source of the sound. When he found none, he shook his head, gesturing toward the passage they'd come from. “Get back in the tunnel,” he whispered urgently. “I'd rather face down a hundred Morrowi than a huge alien cat.”

Spock nodded once in acquiescence of his captain's command. Slinking with predatory grace, the half-Vulcan made his way back to the tunnel, sliding down into it and disappearing amid the bottomless shadows. 

Jim followed. Crouched low, he kept his phaser raised and ready to fire. He reached the edge of the tunnel, and opened his mouth to say, “I'm coming down!” but before the words could leave his mouth, a black and white-streaked shadow slammed into him full-force, snarling with vicious fury. He was knocked flat on his back, his phaser spinning from his hands and skidding away across the planet's rocky surface. “Spock!” he tried to say, but all the air had been knocked from his lungs, and his voice wouldn't work.

The beast, which was about the size of a small shuttle ship with claws as long as sharp as machetes, stood over Jim with one enormous paw on his chest, and the other raised for a killing blow. As the strike fell, Jim raised his arms over his head in a final desperate attempt to protect himself. The last thing he saw before everything went black was a flash of bright blue, and a flare of piercingly white light. 

In the foggy distance, someone was yelling his name. 

And then the creature's paw struck him, and there was nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry this took so long to get posted, but I didn't have internet until this morning, so there was no way for me to get it up until now. Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who commented/left kudos/read the story! You guys keep me inspired, and I love you all for it.
> 
> I hope everyone had a great end of Summer (if you're in the Northern Hemisphere, that is!) 
> 
> Also, Shelby has been extra inspired these past few days, so the next chapter is already about half finished. I should be able to get it up sometime before this Friday, if the inspiration stays strong! As always, I'd absolutely love to hear any thoughts on this chapter, or on the story in general. Thank you all again for supporting this fic; I really appreciate it! ;D


	6. Arc #1: Gemini: Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is definitely NOT a maiden in distress.

Arc #1: Gemini

Chapter Six

____________________________________ 

_Jim!_ The name spun through Spock's head like a leaf caught in a tornado. Fear, vicious and abrasive as the six-inch claws of the beast that crouched over his captain's body, cut through Spock's carefully erected mental shields like a hot knife through butter. The fear was joined a second later by anger, born of terror, as Spock watched the creature raise it's paw, poised to strike. A potentially deadly blow, should it fall.

“Jim!” Spock yelled, leaping out of the mouth of the tunnel and launching himself across the wasteland at the creature with ferocious strength. He was unarmed, and, statistically, his chances of surviving without a weapon against this enormous alien beast were infinitesimal. But if Jim did not survive, then that did not matter anyway. If he could not save his captain, then his own changes of survival were inconsequential. 

_(When had that become the case? When had his life become so intimately, ultimately intertwined with that of James T. Kirk? Why was he thinking about that_ now? _Why--?)_

_Be quiet,_ Spock told himself. He inhaled deeply, and prepared for battle. There was no time to reflect on such things. Later, maybe. But right now, the fight was all that mattered.

Spock paused for a fraction of a second to pick up Jim's phaser as he rushed toward the Canithor with unbridled aggression. Leaping between the creature and his captain, he raised his phaser, and fired mid-air. The beam of brilliantly glowing particles hit the Canithor in the center of the chest; it snarled, shaking its head, but did not go down. Spock was knocked aside as it shifted one enormous shoulder against him, sending him sprawling back in an ungraceful fall. 

And then its paw came down, hard, and Spock watched in horror as Jim's head slammed against the bare rock and ice of the planet's surface, the captain's blue eyes going wide with shock before sliding shut. Blood, thick and vibrant red, trickled sluggishly from a fresh gash across Jim's cheek and forehead. The captain went limp, lifeless. Helpless and entirely at the creature's lack of mercy.

“No!” Spock cried out, terrified, angry, and grief-stricken all at once. Emotion, raw and wild as the landscape around him, burst through Spock's already splintering composure and threatened to drown him as it surged, white hot and burning, through his blood. “Jim, _no!”_

With renewed fury, Spock lifted his phaser (no, not _his_ phaser, _Jim's_ phaser, and how had the captain even lost it in the first place? Was he _trying_ to get killed?) and sent a rapid succession of shots straight into the Canithor's exposed flank. With a scream so loud and piercing that Spock instinctively lifted his hands to shield his sensitive ears, the huge striped beast turned its attention away from Jim. Toward Spock, but that did not matter. As long as Jim was safe.

_Safe._ If Spock had been human, he would have laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. _As long as he is alive,_ Spock told himself. In the next instant, he realized he did not even know if Jim was. A new wave of fear nearly crushed the air from his lungs. _I must save him_ , he thought, wild and desperate and terrified that he was already too late. His shields were gone now, crumbled to dust, frayed and torn and splintered. Emotion, red-hot and blindingly powerful, raced like electricity through his veins. _That does not matter. He is all that matters now._

The Canithor reared up, extended claws raking the air, and bared dagger-like fangs in a sneering snarl. It screamed again, a battle-cry this time, and lunged, thousands of pounds of lithe, supple, muscular flesh and fury bearing down on Spock. 

Spock held his ground. _I will not run,_ he told himself. It was not an option. Any act of cowardice now could lead to Jim's death. If he abandoned his captain now, the knowledge of that fact would kill him regardless. So, lifting Jim's phaser and bracing himself, Spock fired: one, two, three shots directly into the gaping, open mouth of the creature. 

The Canithor fell like a bag of concrete. Its eyes, cruel and slit-pupiled, rolled back into its sleek, enormous head. A shudder ran through its entire body, rippling the greasy black and white-stripped pelt. As it struck the ground, front legs collapsing under the sudden dead weight of its body, the ground shook from the force of it. It skidded, claws extending and retracting wildly, until it came to a halt with its wrinkled, whiskered muzzle inches from the toes of Spock's boots.

Spock did not wait to watch it die. As he stepped past it, already running, he gave only the barest moment's pause to send a few extra blasts into the twitching body of his foe. Insurance. It would not get up again.

When Spock reached him, Jim was lying with his lips parted, blood in his mouth and dripping sluggishly down his face. His eyes were closed. A bruise, dark and deep, was blooming on his right cheek. His torn and bloodied shirt was in even worse shape than before; the golden material was scuffed and covered in dirt in addition to fresh and dried blood. 

Spock knelt beside his captain, hands hovering over Jim's body as hesitance overtook him. “Captain,” Spock said, and was surprised at how uneven his voice sounded. Quite un-Vulcan-like, he thought. He found that he did not care. “Jim?”

Nothing. Jim was still and silent. Unresponsive. His face was set in a frozen expression of surprise, of fear. _Unacceptable,_ Spock thought, and found that he was shaking. _It is cold,_ he told himself. But that was not the reason. 

Reaching out, Spock pressed one hand, palm down, fingers spread, against Jim's face. He found Jim's psy points quickly; closing his eyes, he reached out with his mind. Immediately, the distant thrum of Jim's consciousness brushed against his own. Just long enough for him to know that Jim was alive. The relief that Spock felt as he retracted his hand was electric. A second later, however, it was swept aside by concern as Spock slid his fingers beneath the captain's head, thinking to stabilize his neck, and felt them come away wet.

Jim groaned as Spock brushed against what appeared to be a large cut in the back of his head. The captain winced, and turned his head to one side, mumbling something incomprehensible. Beneath his closed eyelids, his eyes flickered from side to side as if he were living through some traumatic nightmare. Which, Spock remembered, was not too far from the truth. Jim's hair, usually light brown and gold, was soaked through with dark, clotted red. The clumpy, sticky stain had spread from the top of Jim's head down to the nape of his neck. And it was still growing.

“Captain?” Spock said, forcing himself to sound composed. The last thing Jim needed right now was for Spock to be emotionally compromised. _Concentrate,_ Spock told himself. _You are Vulcan. Control yourself. Do not give in to emotion._

“Spock,” Jim slurred, turning his face up and toward the sound of Spock's voice. “That you?”

Spock reached down and pressed his palm flat against Jim's forehead. It was meant to be a brief touch, just to test the captain's temperature and hold him steady, but Jim seemed to melt at the contact, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked open bright blue eyes. He looked up at Spock, and managed the ghost of his usual charming smile. 

“Hey, Spock,” the captain said. “Don't tell Bones I got my ass kicked by a cat, 'kay? I'll never hear the end of it.”

Spock stared at Jim as the captain's eyes slid shut again, head lolling toward the rocks. “Captain,” he repeated, a sharp note in his voice. He slid his hand beneath Jim's head again, holding it up and away from the cold, rocky surface of the alien planet. “We must return to the Morrowi facility. We must find Doctor McCoy and tend to your injuries before--”

The distant sound of voices, strained and reedy and not human, cut Spock off. He shook Jim very gently with his other hand, gripping his captain's shoulder, but Jim did not show any signs of consciousness. _The Morrowi,_ Spock thought. _They have found us._ He looked back over at the mouth of the tunnel through which they had come. His gaze was captured by a bright beam of light that slid up over the rocks beyond the tunnel, coming from just inside the opening. _We must move,_ he thought.

Without a sound, Spock slipped both arms beneath Jim's body. Picking him up almost effortlessly, he held the human tight against his chest, one arm cradling the captain's head, the other braced across the small of Jim's back. “Hold on, Jim,” he said. Illogical—he knew that the captain could not hear him—and yet it somehow gave him strength to taste Jim's name in his mouth. _I will not fail you again,_ he told himself. _Never again._

He set off across the cracked, icy, barren landscape at the fastest pace he could manage, heading for the distant, faint promise of trees silhouetted against the horizon. 

* * * * * * *

When Jim came to, it was to find himself staring up at a canopy of gnarled, thorn-laden branches and huge, arching black leaves. His head was throbbing viciously—tears sprung to his eyes, unbidden, with every fresh wave of pain that rushed through him—and he was so cold that he was afraid, momentarily, he might already be dead. He seemed to be lying on a soft, padded surface of some sort, although he did not have enough strength to sit up and see what it was.

“Captain!” Spock said, cutting off Jim's spiraling, chaotic train of thought. Jim sensed a definite note of relief in the half-Vulcan's tone. Spock was at his side in an instant, kneeling beside him, dark eyes full of thinly veiled concern. “Jim, are you conscious?” Spock demanded to know.

“Mmm,” Jim hummed, because he couldn't actually get his tongue to form words. Everything was heavy, his memory sluggish, his muscles seized up and frozen. 

And then Spock's hands were on him, warm and soft and _real_ , and his breath hitched in his throat. “Do not move, Captain,” Spock murmured. Long, tentative fingers settled on Jim's forehead, blissfully warm and gentle. “You have sustained considerable damage from the Canithor attack. Although I cannot be entirely sure at this moment, I believe you may have a concussion, as well as several dermal abrasions on your face and head.”

Jim managed a weak smile. “Not gonna ruin my stunning good looks, is it, Mr. Spock?” he rasped. His throat was achingly sore and dry; he swallowed convulsively, and winced at the less-than-pleasant sensation. Sighing, he let his head fall back against the soft pad beneath him.

Spock's tilted his head slightly, considering. “No, I do not believe any damage has been done that cannot be reversed,” he said carefully. “As long as you do not move unnecessarily, and do not fall unconscious in the next three point five minutes, I estimate your odds of survival at--”

“Hold that thought,” Jim cut over Spock. He shook his head weakly, his eyelids becoming heavy as sudden sleepiness threatened to overwhelm him. “I do better without knowing the odds,” he explained. He managed another small smile. “Illogical, I know. But it works for me.”

Spock paused, seemingly thinking this over. Eventually, he said, “Are you in pain, Captain?”

Jim took a moment to assess himself. Simply put, the answer was a resounding “ _yes_ ,” but there was no point in burdening Spock with that information when Jim's level of discomfort was trivial at most. “No,” he said, trying for a joking tone and falling about a hundred miles flat. He attempted to shift his posture, wiggling his shoulders to get comfortable, and winced as a shockwave of agony raced through his entire body, tingling through his fingers and toes. He winced, closing his eyes. “I'm feeling awesome. Just fantastic.”

“That statement,” Spock replied, with a hint of disdain in his voice, “is very clearly false.”

Jim sighed, and changed the subject. “Where are we?” he asked.

“The twilight jungles of Gemini III.”

Jim opened his eyes just for the sake of rolling them. “But where _are_ we?” 

Spock gave his captain a _look_. “Do you wish for me to tell you our exact coordinates, Captain?” he said, lifting one eyebrow. “Or the current position of Gemini III in its rotation around its sun?”

Jim laughed aloud. The sound quickly turned to a cough. For a moment, he found that he couldn't breath, the jungle's muggy air catching in his throat and settling, heavy and uncomfortable, on his tongue. He sat up suddenly, and very nearly passed out as blood rushed to his head. “Shit,” he gasped, hands coming up to massage his throat. He wrapped his arms around himself, wincing as each cough sent a new wave of pain through his battered and beaten body.

“Jim.” Spock's voice was laced with urgency, and, unless Jim was hallucinating, a large measure of concern. The half-Vulcan's hands were back on him as the coughing continued, one pressed flat against his back, and the other on his chest. “Do not fight it,” Spock commanded, tone low and intense. “Let it pass.”

Jim nodded, and closed his eyes. He did his best to obey his First Officer's advice, taking slow, measured breaths as his chest stopped seizing. When he finally found his voice again, he said, “Guess you can't be funny for a while, Spock. I might laugh myself to death.” Even as he spoke, his strength began to give out, and he sagged into Spock's strong, gentle hands. 

Spock moved forward a foot or so, scooting across the jungle floor—which was, Jim realized, what he had been lying on—and caught Jim so that the captain's back was pressed flat against his First Officer's chest. “I will attempt not to, as humans say, 'crack any jokes', sir,” he said.

Jim laughed again, this time managing to avoid triggering another coughing attack. “God dammit, Spock,” he said, tone light and teasing, “that's exactly what I'm talking about. Bones is right; you're a goddamn sneaky Vulcan.”

In the distance, the faint thrum of some insect stopped abruptly. “We have been here too long,” Spock murmured. His voice was close to Jim's ear, close enough to send shivers down Jim's spine that had nothing to do with his injuries. “The Canithor will find our trail if we do not move soon.”

Jim's blood, already chilled, ran cold. “It's still after us?” he said, trying to hide the way his voice shook.

“No,” Spock said. The half-Vulcan rose to his feet, gently lifting Jim by the arms as he did so. “I killed the Canithor that attacked you, Captain. But there are many more out in the wastelands beyond this jungle, as well as in the jungle itself. It is not safe to linger in any one place for long.”

Jim attempted to step away from Spock, and immediately fell to his knees. Groaning, he lifted a hand to his face, pressing shaking fingers to his temple in a vain attempt to alleviate the pulsing headache behind his eyes. “Why didn't you drag my ass back to that tunnel?” he asked.

Spock moved forward with inhuman speed—which, Jim remembered, was actually something Spock was capable of—and slid one arm under Jim's shoulders. Hoisting the captain back to standing, Spock shifted until most of Jim's weight was on him. “The tunnel had been compromised,” he said. 

Jim swore again. He leaned against Spock, happy, for once in his life, to accept someone's help. “I hate this planet,” he complained, bare inches away from sulking. “Any luck getting through to the ship?”

Spock shook his head. “I was unable to reestablish communications,” he said. “After the Canithor attack, I carried you for what I have estimated to be thirty miles across the frozen wasteland on the dark side of Gemini III. When I reached this jungle and recognized it as the habitable surface zone between the perpetually dark and light faces of this planet, I decided to settle here and allow you to rest for five point five hours. During that time, I deconstructed your phaser and the alien light cube, and attempted to build a device with which to hail the _Enterprise_. But, despite experimentation with the very limited resources available to me, I was unable to construct any device capable of receiving or sending a radio signal.”

Jim let out a huffing sigh. Reaching up with the hand not resting on Spock's shoulder, he ran his fingers agitatedly through his blood-crusted hair. “That asteroid shower that the Morrowi Empress was talking about must have been primarily affecting the dark side,” he said, “which means that we'll have a lot better luck meeting up with them if we're on the light side.”

“My thoughts exactly, Captain,” Spock agreed. “However, I have estimated the surface temperature of the desert beyond this twilit jungle to peak at approximately 130 degrees Fahrenheit.”

In his present, half-frozen state, that didn't sound all that bad to Jim. He told Spock so.

Spock's eyebrow rose skyward. “Although such a high temperature may be comfortable for someone of Vulcan heritage, Captain, it is far out of the ideal range needed to sustain human life.”

“Oh, big deal, Spock,” Jim said. They'd begun to walk, one slow, plodding step after another, through the eerily silent jungle. All of the fauna here was black, Jim realized—in such a low-light area, it was vital that the trees soak up every available particle of solar energy. “It'll be a few hours. Maybe a day. I'll live.”

“It is, as you say, a _'big deal',_ Captain,” Spock replied. “In your weakened physical state, there is a high possibility that you would not survive long enough to be beamed back aboard the _Enterprise_ should I allow you to venture into such extreme conditions.”

“ _Allow_ me?” Jim echoed, and smiled. “Are you the captain now, Mr. Spock?”

“Since you are currently incapable of performing your duties, sir, I believe that I am, in fact, the acting captain,” Spock shot back immediately. “And until you are capable of performing all of the duties required of a Starfleet captain, I will maintain that position indefinitely.”

Jim groaned. “Are you bribing me to get better with my _job_?” 

The faintest, most minuscule smile touched the corners of Spock's mouth. “Perhaps.”

“Bribery is illegal,” Jim mumbled in-eloquently. He was beginning to tire again, slipping back toward unconsciousness with every step he forced himself to take. Spock was being deliberately slow, and yet the snail's pace was still too much for Jim. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, head falling forward so that his chin rested on his chest. “'M tired,” he slurred. “Damn headache--”

And then, suddenly, he was being hoisted into the air. His eyes flew open in shock, and he fought back his initial urge to fight against the arms that slid beneath his back and under his neck. “Spock, what--?!” he began to say. And then he realized, and cut himself off with a long, lingering groan of embarrassment and exasperation. “Put me down,” he demanded. “I'm not a maiden in distress!”

“No, Captain,” Spock agreed. “You are not a maiden.”

“Oh, come _on!_ ” But, despite his verbal protests, Jim made no physical attempts to remove himself from Spock's gentle but firm grip. He was far too tired for that, and Spock was far too warm. Sagging in defeat, he let his head rest against the Vulcan's upper arm, tilting his head until his nose and lips brushed the fabric of Spock's blue uniform shirt. His eyes began to slide shut again, and he let out his breath in a deep, bone-weary sigh. “Can't tell Bones,” he slurred out, even as he sank inevitably toward the bliss of sleep. 

Spock's chest was strong against Jim's side, rising and falling in a steady, predictable pattern. “I will make sure that Doctor McCoy never becomes aware of this situation,” Spock promised.

Jim nodded, smiling. “Has it been three point five minutes? Can I sleep now?”

Jim could hear the matching smile in Spock's voice when the half-Vulcan replied, “Yes, Jim.”

With a sigh of resigned contentment, Jim let himself fall into unconsciousness at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! I got this up only one day after the deadline I set for myself! Which is, generally speaking, a win. Shelby actually got off her lazy ass and helped me out, which was nice. Yay for random inspiration!
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who commented on the past chapter, or any of the chapters before that!! I appreciate hearing what you all think so very much, and it's been amazingly motivating to know that people are actually reading this trainwreck of a fic. xD 
> 
> So again, THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who has given this fic a chance! I love you all so much. <3


	7. Arc #1: Gemini: Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock struggles to contact the Enterprise as Jim battles his own injuries and the oppressive heat of Gemini III's vast desert.

Arc #1: Gemini

Chapter Seven

____________________________________ 

The deserts of Gemini III were, Spock decided, a few degrees too hot for his preference. Sand blew across a rugged, battered sandstone foundation, the dry winds hardly making up for the oppressive heat beating down from overhead. But, despite the uncomfortable heat, Spock's mind was as sharp and clear as ever. He was alert to every little movement and sound that caught in the swirling sands between the towering dunes, ready to fight or run at the first sign of danger. After all, he did not know enough about the Canithor beasts to conclude that they would not follow him out of the jungle and into the heat.

Jim had been sleeping—or unconscious, more likely—for approximately three point four hours. He was limp in Spock's arms, head lolling with every long stride that the half-Vulcan took. Spock knew that if the temperature was uncomfortably hot for someone of Vulcan blood, like himself, then it would be virtually unbearable for Jim. Perhaps even fatal, should the captain remain in the direct sunlight for much longer. _Unacceptable,_ Spock thought. Every piece of him rebelled against the thought of losing his captain; he forced the possibility from his mind immediately.

At that moment, as if sensing that Spock's thoughts had turned toward him, Jim mumbled something and attempted to turn over in his sleep. Spock held on tighter, preventing Jim from rolling out of his arms. “Captain?” Spock said, softly. Hesitantly. “Jim, can you hear me?”

Jim didn't reply. His forehead glistened with sweat, and when Spock readjusted his grip so that Jim's chest was pressed against his own, he could feel the human's heart pounding dangerously fast against his ribs. _He has developed a fever,_ Spock realized. Despite the heat, he suddenly felt as if a finger of ice had traced its way down his spine. Quickly, he estimated Jim's internal temperature at around 103.5 degrees Fahrenheit, nearly five full degrees above the average human body temperature. _Unless I can lower his core temperature soon, he will not survive._ The thought caused Spock's breath to catch; he closed his eyes, pushing back a wave of overwhelming emotion.

Looking around desperately, Spock scanned the desert for any sign of water, or shelter, or both. There was nothing. Not even a dead tree, or a deep indent beside a dune to provide a small measure of shade.

“Spock!” Jim called out suddenly, and reached up to grab the front of Spock's tunic, clenching his fist around a wad of dusty blue fabric. Spock looked down at him, surprised, but the captain's eyes were still firmly shut. _He is dreaming,_ Spock told himself. _Nothing more._ Even as he thought it, Spock knew that this assessment was not entirely true. It was far more likely that Jim was hallucinating, delirious with fever, and that the captain was, in a sense, awake. However, such possibilities only increased the building fear inside Spock's mind. He shoved the thoughts roughly aside again, and forced himself to concentrate on finding refuge from the sun as soon as possible.

Salvation came in the form of a lonely rock, which sat by its self in the midst of a large flat patch of sand. The indent in the desert was quite close to the approximate location that Spock had decided would be the best place for the _Enterprise_ to beam them up: a stretch of flat desert sand that was far enough away from the Morrowi civilization that there would be no way for the aliens to interfere, should they somehow have come into the possession of technology capable of such a feat, but not so far out into the desert that they could not retreat back to the jungle if necessary.

Spock set Jim down in the relatively cool shade spread at the base of the rock—which, now that Spock could examine it up close, seemed to be a large asteroid that had likely struck hundreds of thousands of years before. It would explain the crater-like, round patch of flat, level sand all around the formation. However, its origin was of no consequence at the moemnt. Wherever it had come from, Spock was grateful for the temporary shelter that it provided.

At once, he set about fiddling with the light cube he had taken from the Morrowi, as well as with the disassembled parts he had taken from Jim's phaser. _If only we had managed to find a communicator during our escape,_ Spock thought. Immediately, recognizing the illogical nature of wishing that the past had unfolded differently than it had, he returned his entire attention to the task at hand. The sooner he managed to hail the _Enterprise_ and inform them of his and Jim's location, the sooner Jim would receive the medical care that he so desperately needed.

And, given his lack of tools and the short time he had to work with, that task had become almost comically difficult. He would have to apply all of his considerable mental prowess and delicate knowledge of electronics to this problem if he wished to solve it in time.

Mentally steeling himself, he got to work immediately.

* * * * * * *

Jim drifted through consciousness. At any one moment, he couldn't say if he was waking or sleeping, living or dead. Flashes of disjointed memory and images that were gone before he could begin to examine them whirled through his mind. His eyes _felt_ closed, and yet, he could see these things, these startling bursts of bright mediated by uncomfortable glimpses into a deep, dark void.

Occasionally, he would hear his name. Soft, whispered, familiar, drifting through the blackness. Whenever he did, he tried to reach back, to pull himself out of the endless cycle of dark and light, to answer. But his lips never worked, and no matter how much energy he put into moving, into forcing himself upright or even just rolling over, he never seemed to get anywhere.

At one point, he managed to crack his eyes open—or so he thought—and was greeted by the sight of a huge, ferocious tiger-like creature standing over him, its teeth bared, crimson blood dripping from its wrinkled muzzle and whiskers. He thought that he might've cried out at that—a name, as familiar as his own, spoken with terrified urgency—but then his mind fell back into the hazy delirium of heat and empty blackness, and the vision crumbled and drifted away like ash in his hands.

The first time he became one hundred percent aware of his surroundings again, he realized that he was much cooler than he could remember being before. Where his skin had been burning before, he now felt almost absurdly cold. He shivered as a steady, calm breeze brushed against his body, drying the sweat that he could feel, damp and sticky, on his face. No, not only on his face, _everywhere_ —what had happened, he wondered? He'd been attacked, right? By something… why couldn't he remember the details? And why the _hell_ did his head hurt so much? Maybe both questions had the same answer. If so, he couldn't find it in the jumbled chaos of his fever-wracked mind.

“Captain?” Spock's voice, distant and unreachable as the farthest star in the sky, sounded above Jim. He tried to make his mouth work again, to reply, because this time he _knew_ who it was. At least he'd gotten back enough of his senses to recognize his First Officer.

Finally, _finally,_ after what must have been entire eons, Jim managed to say, “Yeah?” A victory. A small victory, but one nonetheless. Not that it felt that way—talking, even a single word, immediately brought attention to how dry his mouth was. He tried to swallow, but it was impossible. Suddenly, he was so thirsty it physically hurt.

“Jim!” Spock said, and a moment later Jim heard Spock approach him, and settle down in the sand beside him. “How long have you been awake, Captain?” Spock asked.

Jim cleared his throat, wincing. He still wasn't sure if he should open his eyes. What if he did, and the Canithor was crouched over him, preparing to rip his throat out? What if Spock was the illusion, and not the other way around? Shaking his head—or attempting to; the actual motion proved too painful—he said, “Jus' woke up, Spock. How about you?” It took him a few seconds of Spock's silence to realize what a stupid question that was. Okay, so maybe his mind hadn't come all the way back online yet. But it was getting there.

“Captain, I have relocated us to an asteroid crater seven point one five miles from the outer fringe of the jungle that we passed through earlier today.”

“No days here,” Jim corrected, his words still slurred, and his voice croaky. Taking in a deep breath through his nose, and releasing it through his mouth, he blinked open his eyes. Immediately, he took in the strangely distant blaze of golden light surrounding him. Well, not _directly_ surrounding him: he seemed to be in the shadow of an enormous, roughly rounded rock. The asteroid Spock had been talking about, then. Right.

Spock himself was sitting cross-legged beside Jim, hands on his knees as if he were meditating. His posture was even more rigid than usual ( _was that even possible?_ Jim wondered) and his dark eyes were fixed intently on Jim.

Jim blinked. He managed a smile, albeit an unsteady one. “Not fair that you don't sweat,” he said. “I'm all sticky and gross.” He lifted a hand to his head, running his fingers through his matted, blood-encrusted hair. He made a face when his hand came away covered in sweat and red dust. He held his hand up, turning his palm toward Spock. “See?”

Spock lifted one eyebrow. “Yes, Captain,” he said stiffly. “I am well aware that the average human's biological response to elevated temperatures differs greatly from that of an average Vulcan. However, I fail to see how such a condition is 'unfair.' The ability to sweat can be quite beneficial in many cases, such as--”

“Shhhh.” Jim hushed, pressing his fingers to his temples. He attempted to sit up. Immediately, Spock was in action, one firm, steady hand spreading across Jim's chest and holding him down in the warm sand. “I would advise you against moving until you receive proper medical care, Jim,” Spock said. Jim opened his mouth, ready to protest, but hesitated at the look on Spock's face. Something about the way his First Officer said Jim's name screamed _protective._ Protective, and concerned. Jim would hate to cause Spock undue worry on top of everything else that had happened, after all. So he leaned back, letting himself relax, and released his breath in a huff that was part annoyance, part resignation. 

“Fine, _Mom,_ ” Jim said. He might be obeying medical orders for once in his life, but there was no way in hell he was going down without a fight. Even a small, passive-aggressive, entirely verbal one.

A few minutes passed in silence. Jim was just beginning to drift back toward sleep, the heat lulling his usually sharp mental faculties, when a garbled voice broke through the heavy cover of impending unconsciousness, buzzing with static interference. 

_“Uhura… think we just… contact… there's something here… Mr. Spock? Captain? Can you hear us?”_

“Lieutenant Uhura,” Spock said, the faintest rise in pitch in his voice betraying his relief. “I am reading you. However, the device I am currently using to pick up your signal is unreliable, and could fail at any moment. I suggest that we speak quickly.”

Forgetting his previous resolution to stay lying down, Jim sat straight up, his heart leaping into his throat. He ignored the pounding in his head, and the throbbing in his neck and shoulders. He stared at the tiny, flickering device in Spock's hand, hope gripping him like a giant's fist at the sound of Uhura's voice. The device was a crude radio of sorts, made of pieces of his phaser and the deconstructed glowing cube that Spock had taken from the depths of the Morrowi fortress. “Is that Uhura?” he asked, even though it was obvious that it was. He'd just heard her. Somehow, against all odds, they were going to be okay. Then again, he should really be used to that by now. Beating the odds was all they ever did anymore, if he was being honest with himself.

“ _Spock!_ ” Uhura's voice was tight with emotion. “ _Are you still reading me?_ ”

Jim held out his hand to receive the device, grinning eagerly. Spock gave him a slightly disbelieving look, and said, “This device is a very delicate instrument, Captain. I do not believe I should risk transferring it to you in your state.” Jim's hand fell back onto his chest, defeated, and he slumped back onto the ground with a groan.

Into the device, Spock said, “I am still reading you, Lieutenant. Have you beamed aboard the rest of the landing party?”

_“Yes,_ ” Uhura replied. _“You and the captain are the only ones unaccounted for._ ”

Jim let out his breath in relief. “Tell her to account for us,” he said to Spock. “'Cause I'm really fucking ready to get off of this hell-planet. Preferably _before_ I melt.”

Spock gave him an odd look, and appeared to be on the verge of launching into a long-winded spiel about how it was impossible for a human body to melt unless the temperatures were significantly higher. But then he returned his attention to the device in his hands. “The captain is here with me,” he said. “We are both ready to beam up as soon as you can get a lock on our location.”

_“We're working on that,_ ” Uhura promised. Her voice was coming through more clearly with every passing second. As if, somewhere in that overly bright sky overhead, the _Enterprise_ was drifting slowly closer. The thought filled Jim with enough relief to floor him, had he not been already flat-out on the ground. “ _Is there any way you could give us your location? Even an approximate one?”_ the Communications Officer asked. There was a noticeable strain in her voice now; they must be having a hard time figuring out where the signal from Spock's makeshift radio was coming from. Debris left in the atmosphere from the meteor shower could be causing disturbances, Jim mused. That must be it.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Spock said. “We are on the dark side of the asteroid located approximately five miles from the edge of the jungle nearest to the Morrowi settlement.”

_“Good thinking,_ ” Uhura replied, sounding pleased, impressed, and relieved all in one breath, _“finding an unmistakable landmark like that. We'll have a lock on your signal in less than a minute. See you soon, Commander. Captain. Uhura out._ ” The signal cut off, and static filled the connection. 

Jim let out his breath. His eyes slid shut. The light was making his head pound, and now that they were safe, the last of his strength, born of adrenaline and fear, was fading. “Spock,” he said, drifting toward the void in his mind again. He reached out, almost unconsciously, as he began to slip. Searching for an anchor. Something to hold onto as the world shifted around him, fading to nothing.

And then, shockingly, Spock reached back. Jim almost startled at the feeling of Spock's fingers curling around his wrist. His First Officer held on with a light but firm grip. Anchoring Jim, just as Jim had wanted, to reality. In his half-conscious state, the captain managed a small smile. _What would I do without you?_ he thought, and knew that, through the contact of their bodies, Spock had heard him.

The next thing Jim knew, light was dancing all around him. Like fireflies across his vision, playing against the darkness of his overloaded, fevered mind. The steady, familiar hum of transporter energy wrapped him up. As consciousness fled, he began to dissolve. 

Even in the blackness, Spock did not let go.

* * * * * * *

When Jim came back to himself, the first thing he was aware of was the sensation of a strong but gentle hand on his forearm. The fingers were long, steady, and oddly warm. Through the haze of fever half-dreams, he heard voices drifting, like little birds caught in a torrent of wind.

“He'll be fine, damn you. Now get out of my sick bay before I throw you out myself!” 

_Bones_ , Jim realized, and his heart leaped. _We made it back to the ship!_

“I can assure you, Doctor, that _'throwing'_ me out of this room is not only physically impossible for you, as I possess three times your strength, but may also negatively affect the mental state of the captain. I am here so that, should he become confused upon awakening, I may aid him in recollecting what has happened up until now. As I was with him during the traumatic events that he recently experienced, I am better qualified to help him make sense of those events. I think you would agree.”

_And there's Spock,_ Jim thought. He glowed with internal happiness. If his CMO and First Officer had fallen back into their usual routine of petty argumentation and insults, then all must be well on the _Enterprise._

“You know what I think?” Bones growled. “I think you just like holding his hand.”

“Doctor,” Spock said, sounding mildly affronted, “I can assure you that I most certainly do not _like_ holding his hand. I am merely providing a physical anchor to reality, so that he is not confused when he awakens.”

“Physical anchor to… why, I've never heard such a pile of horseshit in my life!” Bones snorted. “Call it what it is, Spock. You're worried about him. It would be cute, if it wasn't so damn inconvenient.”

“I fail to see how I am inconveniencing you, Doctor,” Spock said.

“You fail to see a lot of things, Spock,” Bones shot back. “It's not my fault that you're a cold-blooded hobgoblin with no more emotion than a chunk of lead.”

Spock was silent for a long moment—likely coming up with a particularly eloquently passive-aggressive comeback, Jim decided. Which probably meant it was time for him to 'wake up.' After all, it wouldn't be very captainly of him to allow his CMO and First Officer rip each other to shreds over such a trivial disagreement. Whether that 'ripping' be pure verbally or physically.

So, with a deliberately theatrical gasp, Jim opened his eyes. He blinked rapidly, as if clearing dust from his eyes, and attempted to roll onto his side.

“Whoa, Jim!” Bones was by his side in an instant. The CMO's hands were rougher than Spock's gentle grip on Jim's arm, wrestling the captain back into place on the hard, thinly padded bed. As Jim's vision cleared, the ship's doctor came into clear focus. Bones was scowling, predictably, and wielding a hypo loaded with some sort of clear liquid. Without warning, Bones unceremoniously injected directly into Jim's unwisely exposed neck. 

Jim yelped, going limp as a cool, almost pleasant sensation pulsed through his veins from the injection site. “What'd you give me?” he asked, words tripping over one another as he tried to make his tongue work with his lips.

“A mild sedative,” Bones replied. “You took a hell of a beating down there, Jim. It's a miracle you're still alive.”

Jim chuckled weakly. Without turning enough to bring down Bones' wrath again, he shifted his posture just enough that he could look up at Spock. “That just about sums me up, doesn't it, Mr. Spock?” he said. He was entirely unable to hide the grin that slid easily onto his cracked and dry lips.

Spock raised one eyebrow in an expression that was caught between subtle amusement and faint disdain. “Indeed,” he agreed. Standing up, the half-Vulcan stepped away from the bed, turning toward Bones. Spock inclined his head slightly. “Now that the captain has awakened, Doctor, I believe my presence is needed elsewhere.”

Bones rolled his eyes. He looked to Jim. “That's what I've been telling him for five hours--” he began, but Jim cut him off.

“You're needed _here_ ,” Jim protested, looking up at Spock beseechingly. As soon as the physical contact between Jim and his First Officer was broken, the former immediately missed it, more desperately than he'd expected to. There was definitely a spark of something there that Jim would have to think over more carefully later, but for now, all he knew was that he wanted Spock to stay. And that was enough. For now.

Spock met Jim's gaze steadily. “I fail to see why, Captain,” he said, almost carefully. As if testing the waters, fishing for Jim's reaction.

Jim grinned again. “I'll get bored,” he said. “And I'll drive Bones _nuts._ Trust me, no one wants that.”

Bones grumbled something that sounded like a long string of choice Southern curses. Spock raised one eyebrow so impossibly high that Jim was shocked it didn't disappear into his hair entirely.

“And how do you suggest I alleviate your boredom, sir?” the half-Vulcan asked, almost sounding exasperated now.

“Bones,” Jim said, his gaze still fixed on Spock. “Do you mind sending one of the nurses to my quarters to get my chess set?”

Bones' irritation was so thick in the air it was almost hard to breath, but the doctor didn't protest past his usual irritated grumbling, as Jim had expected. “I don't know why I put up with you, sometimes,” Bones complained as he started out of the room in search of an idle nurse. “ _Most_ of the time, in fact.”

Jim chuckled, shaking his head as Bones made his exit, still muttering to himself. Jim made a face when pain shot through his head and neck at the sudden movement; he relaxed back onto the pillows that had been piled under his shoulders, sighing. “So, Spock,” he said. He returned his full attention to his First. “You ready to get your ass handed to you?”

“While I am unfamiliar with that particular turn of phrase, Captain,” Spock said, looking slightly scandalized, “I can infer that it means that you expect to win. I cannot say that I share your confidence in that outcome.”

Jim laughed, lifting one eyebrow. “Guess we'll see,” he said. 

The nurse that Bones had sent returned with the chess set at that moment. Spock took it from her, thanked her, and meticulously began arranging the players on the three boards. Jim watched the half-Vulcan's fingers move, mesmerized by the way they moved with such quick and steady precision. As accurate and well-placed in everything that they did as Spock's brilliant mind was in every thought. Jim thought about how those fingers had felt against the inside of his bare wrist, slightly hotter than his own skin, the touch subtle but somehow electric. As if a current was passing through the contact. _Your thoughts to my thoughts._ The words echoed through Jim's conscious, as if coming from a long way away, and he was suddenly struck by an overwhelming desire to know what it would be like to have Spock inside his mind. To share every intimate thought, every undiscovered crack and corner of his inner self with another person.

No, not another person. Just Spock.

Okay, the origin of that train of thought was _definitely_ something he'd have to think about later. But not right now. Right now, he had a game to win.

Spock finished setting up the board. The half-Vulcan placed himself across the small bedside table from Jim, lifting his dark gaze to meet his captain's. “Your move, Captain,” he said mildly. 

Smirking, Jim reached out and moved a pawn. “May the best man win,” he replied.

They lapsed into silence as the game began in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! So that's it--the last chapter of Arc #1! I really hope that everyone has enjoyed the story so far, and that you'll continue to read the next arc when I start in on it. I'm so excited for the next part of the story, and I can't wait to get it down in writing so that I can begin sharing it! :D
> 
> I just want to thank everyone who has left comments or kudos so far. Y'all are amazing, and kept Shelby well-fed enough for her to actually be helpful (sometimes) for the duration of this first arc. I love you all so much, and I hope you're all having a good week so far!! <3


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